No More Than Opiates
by Mimsy Momerath
Summary: Striking and wealthy Emma Frost's arrival at the Institute makes waves with the current students. But behind her haughty airs lies a drive for success and a dysfunctional family history that may impact the students in ways they'd never imagined.
1. Chapter One : Alpha

Chapter One : Alpha

Kurt looked surreptitiously around after teleporting to the little red mailbox just outside the mansion's gates. The smell of brimstone hung in the air for a moment before being borne away on the warm breeze. The faster it dissipated, the better; on one particularly still day, old Mrs Macgregor had called the Bayville Fire Department, swearing that "Those hooligans on Xavier's property" were burning wood in a direct violation of local bylaw. A more rational sort would have taken this as a warning not to be so obvious in daily life, but the driveway was long and Kurt just couldn't muster the energy to walk down the stairs, out the door, and all the way down to the edge of the property.

He withdrew an incredibly thick stack of paper from the box, shuffling through them in idle curiosity. Junk, junk, junk, an issue of _Seventeen_ magazine for Kitty, a letter for Rahne postmarked from Scotland, and this month's Playboy addressed to Ray. More junk, Scott's cell phone bill, junk again, a letter for Mrs Macgregor that Kurt debated delivering to her door, the electrical bill... The amount of mail that could accumulate after three days was staggering.

And suddenly, there was a loud honking noise and the sound of screeching tires as a bright red Maserati flew around the corner and headed straight towards the gates, loud music blaring from its radio. Kurt just barely registered the song as he dove out of the way and the heavy metal gates swung open. The sleek sports car didn't even slow down as it barrelled onto the property, leaving skid marks in its berth as it raced towards the doors to the mansion.

Kurt dusted the leaves from his fur, grateful that the image inducer hadn't shorted out after the impact. He scanned the area once more, warily, rubbed his hip, and prepared to teleport back t the mansion to see what the hell all _that_ was about, while the music was still cutting cleanly through the evening.

_Would a written invitation signed: "choose now or lose it all," Sedate your hesitation or inflame and make you stall?_

_

* * *

_

Jean watched the newcomer step in with the same feeling of excitement mixed with responsibility that she always did. She loved meeting new people, but also had to acknowledge that she would be given the role of mentor and tour guide for the first few weeks while the new recruit sorted themselves out and integrated with the rest of the student body. This could be as simple as showing them around the grounds, to as involving as sitting in their room at two in the morning, trying to quell a young teen's fear about leaving home and coming to terms with their gifts. She was hoping that this student would fall into the former category.

The girl who crossed their threshold was tall and had fair, unblemished skin. Her legs were long and her body, though slim, was not lacking in curves. With her incredibly blonde hair, she looked like the cover girl for Sports Illustrated's swimsuit issue, or a Victoria's Secret angel. Her face was equally pretty, with high cheekbones, a proportionate nose, full pink lips, and incredibly blue eyes surrounded by thick, dark, eyelashes. She was dressed almost entirely in white, from the low-cut tee that showed off her ample chest to the skinny white jeans that only emphasized the fact that her legs didn't touch. Her heels were high and gold and matched her purse. Everything she wore, from the sunglasses atop her head to those incredible shoes, screamed money.

Emma Frost, from what little the Professor had told her, was a problem case out of Boston that he'd been trying to get a hold of for months. Professor Xavier hadn't said much else about the student, ostensibly so as not to create any premature judgments among the others. So what did Jean know? She could tally the points on one hand.

One, the girl was from Boston. Two, she as telekinetic, much like Jean. Three, she was her age. Four... There was no four. Three things the Professor had told her. and the rest she'd need to learn by actually speaking to the student. Problem case or not, she reasoned, Emma Frost looked pleasant enough. They could talk about their shared abilities, which was usually a good conversation point for those unaware of how the school worked. They could talk about clothes, certainly. And Jean had always wanted to visit Boston. But still, she had her misgivings about going into this relatively uninformed.

The problem was trying to forge a bond without having to dig into a student's mind. Generally speaking, the Professor could fill her in on the student's life, or they'd be the ones approaching the mutant, and she could get a few cues based on the home environment. But this time the girl had come to them, tearing up the driveway in a car that cost as much as college tuition, in the kind of clothes that Jean could only dream of affording. There were very few places she could go with this. She didn't like breaking the level of trust with a new student by scanning their minds without their permission. Sometimes that trust was all that kept them there in the first few days of enrolment, knowing that there was one person in the house who would never use their powers against them, and who would respect their personal space.

"Emma Frost," the Professor said by means of greeting, inclining his head towards the girl, "Welcome to the Institute. I trust your drive here went well?"

"It was fine," the girl replied. Her voice had no trace of a Bostonian accent, to Jean's surprise. "People around here drive like seniors, though."

He laughed. "You'll find that that very peace is what will make Bayville the ideal place for you to fully come to terms with your powers."

"I doubt it." Emma raised an eyebrow. A perfectly plucked, arched, eyebrow. "It already bores me."

"It may at first," The Professor replied with a smile, "but you'll see how exciting things can get soon enough. I'm sure Jean will explain further as she helps you settle in."

"I'll help you with your bags," Jean volunteered with a friendly smile, holding her hand out to the girl. "I'm Jean Grey."

"Professor Xavier already said that," Emma pointed out, giving Jean the curtest possible handshake she had ever received. She had the grip of a businessman. "I can handle my own luggage." As if to punctuate her point, a train of suitcases and duffel bags, all expensive, floated into the foyer behind her and dropped to the ground.

"How about I show you your room, then?"

"Lead the way," said Emma, tapping one foot on the floor.

Jean shook her head and looked at the Professor in despair from behind Emma's back.

_She'll come around. She's had a rough time of it, but I'm certain that after you girls bond, she'll fit right in with the rest of the student body._

_I hope you're right, Professor._

* * *

Helping Emma Frost unpack her bags was probably the worst task Jean Grey had undertaken in her entire stay at the Institute. The girl barely spoke, just flopped down on the bed with her arms behind her head, telekinetically moving her belongings around the room in a gesture that Jean understood on a primal level. She was fighting for dominance, showing off her powers in a way that was meant to unnerve. It was no different than a fight between Wolverine and Sabretooth, two alphas fighting to come out on top.

"Maybe you should give your powers a rest," Jean suggested. If the girl had just recently manifested, her stamina wouldn't be that great. From personal experience, she knew about the excruciating headaches that could result from prolonged usage of untrained abilities.

"I can handle it. Trust me. Get off my bed. It's small enough without you sitting on it."

"You must be having a hard time getting used to Bayville," Jean said kindly. "You must miss Boston a lot."

Emma levelled her with a cold blue gaze the colour of a gas flame. She raised her eyebrow in a gesture that Jean would soon connect with resentment and rage. Nary the ghost of a smile crossed her beautiful face.

"Listen, Joan. This guidance councillor bullshit isn't going to work on me. No kidding, Boston's different compared to Bayville. If you aren't going to help me get my stuff in some kind of reasonable order, you may as well leave and spend this glorious Friday studying algebra ahead of time so you'll have more time to run for student body president when school starts."

Jean's blood boiled, and her roots raised a bit with rage. It was a by-product of her telekinesis and her adrenaline function. Whereas most people would feel their arm hair rise slightly as adrenaline function increased, Jean also felt it in the roots of her hair, which seemed to rise and float away from her head ever so slightly when her temper rose, or when faced with a terrifying or dangerous situation.

As if mocking her, Emma's pale blonde hair mirrored the actions of her own. "You can start with my shoes. Line them up according to heel height."

"I'm sorry?"

"The Professor said you were going to help me. You don't seem to want me to use my abilities, so you may as well get to work."

She waved a manicured hand in her general direction. Her nails were pale pink and long.

"Emma, this may be difficult, but you'll come to see that the Institute is full of people just like you, who'll want to be your friend. You can trust us, I promise." A pair of kitten heels flew neatly into the closet.

"If you want me to trust you, prove your loyalty and put my stuff away without swiping it. Those stilettos are worth more than your life insurance policy." A pair of stunning Louboutains dangled mere inches from Jean's nose.

Her patience was wearing incredibly thin. Every attempt at kindness was being met with attitude, with the kind of cold and calculating snide comments that Jean had never expected from a teenager. A bitter old woman, maybe, but never somebody who seemed to have the world at her fingertips, a girl like Emma Frost.

"Maybe I should get to bed, it's getting late."

"It's eleven o'clock on a Friday, it's not like anybody's going to meet you there, so you may as well do something useful with your time."

"Do you want me to stay and help you, or do you want me to stay and do everything for you? There's a huge difference, you know. Or do you want to be alone?"

"Personally," Emma drawled, twirling silky hair around her fingers, "I don't care what you do. You're bent on making me feel welcome after three hours of sitting here, making stilted, inane conversations, thinking that I might actually care. I don't need to read minds to read character, Jenn, and right now, you're annoying me. Do us both a favour and back off."

Jean's jaw tensed as her scalp prickled again. Then she did something she had never done before: she turned her back on the new recruit and walked calmly out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

* * *

Jean had almost forgotten about the incident the next morning as she prepared for breakfast. It was Saturday, probably not a lazy one, she thought, throwing on a pair of yoga pants and a fitted sweatshirt. Whatever Logan had in store for them, it would require a certain amount of comfort. A brush ran through her long hair as she washed her face at the bathroom sink. Telekinesis helped to cut her bathroom time in half, which in a home as crowded as the Institute, was much appreciated.

The sound of laughter greeted her from the dining room as she made her way downstairs. It sounded like almost everyone was awake, though she didn't doubt that some of the boys would be straggling down far later. They'd had quite the video game tournament the night before, lasting until somewhere around four in the morning. She'd joined them for a couple of hours, having been unable to sleep after her infuriating exchange with Emma Frost -

-who, she realized with great shock, seemed to be holding court at the dining room table, surrounded by the other students. She wore some sort of ruffled white tunic that seemed to both float away from her body and cling to her chest, without making her look pregnant. Her hair was smooth and her face radiated without a stitch of makeup. She was laughing, smiling, gesticulating with one hand while engaged in conversation with _Scott_ of all people, occasionally touching his shoulder as if punctuating what she said. Kitty sat next to her, and by the looks of it, the two were getting along just fine. There was a roar of laughter as Emma wound up some sort of wild story about her drive in.

"-so he gave me a free tank of gas!"

Even Scott was shaking his head with an appreciative grin. Stiff, serious, Scott Summers was laughing at that kind of thing? Jean was astounded. Maybe the previous night had just been a case of nerves and anxiety, getting used to a new environment. Maybe Emma had slept off her exhaustion; after all, she had driven the entire route alone. She smiled, relaxed her tense shoulders, and approached the small group.

"Morning everyone," she said, "How did you sleep, Emma?"

She received a cold, blank stare in return. "Like anybody else. Closed my eyes, and when I woke up well.. it was over." Kitty giggled at the dry wit. Jean's smile felt a little more forced.

"Glad to hear it," she said, before pouring herself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the table. She'd need it, if this beginning was any indication of how the day would continue.

"Right." Emma turned to Bobby and tapped the end of his nose with her long index finger. "Hey Popsicle, can you do me a favour?" She asked sweetly. "Can you get me a yoghurt? A girl like me could get lost in a mansion like this."

Jean doubted that, but Bobby seemed to soak it up. He returned from the kitchen in record time, holding a small tub of plain yogurt. He'd even garnished it with fresh berries, which she'd never seen him eat of his own accord. They didn't fit into his four food groups of meat, Cheetos, ice cream, and soda.

"Extra cold, too! You're a doll, Bobby Drake." Emma looked at him through thick lashes as she ate a spoonful slowly, seeming to savour the taste, but there wasn't anything lewd about the gesture. "You are _so_ nice, all of you, welcoming me like this!"

"Like, no problem, Emma!" Kitty said as she stirred her cereal. "Are you going to join us in the Danger Room later?"

"Danger Room? That's cute. Maybe I'll swing by, see if it lives up to its name."

She threw her head back and laughed. Her teeth were even and white. Jean's eyebrows furrowed slightly and her lips pressed against each other.

Jean Grey, mutant abilities and all, had never been bullied before. A lot of it, she had to admit, was probably due to lucky genetics. She wasn't overweight, hadn't suffered debilitating acne or the curse of an early unibrow. Her red hair was well-behaved and she didn't wear glasses over her emerald green eyes. She didn't even have any freckles. There hadn't been anything about her to make fun of, at all, and she didn't go out of her way to antagonize people. She found it easy to mix with others, she liked children, and she was responsible. She didn't break promises and tried her best not to let people down. Her grades were good, but she was also athletic and had a lot of school pride, so she had escaped a nerdy reputation. Even her powers were easily hidden, so as not to draw unwanted attention to herself, which Jean was always incredibly thankful for.

It was something out of _Mean Girls._ It was infuriating. It was alienating, the way they all flocked around her like bees to a lily. There was always a bustle of activity around the newest student, but the novelty usually wore off in a few days, when basic bonds had been made. But she knew, without reading Emma's mind, that she was playing off them. She wasn't going to dig - that seemed unethical - but there was something off in Emma's sweetness, her gentle flirtation with everyone around her, regardless of age or sex. How could a girl who had been so cold just hours before have warmed up so much, in such a strange environment? It didn't make sense.

It bothered her, now. Everyone seemed to be preoccupied with stories about Emma and her car (which mainly interested the boys, who had seen it in the driveway) or Emma and her vast shopping trips (which kept the girls squealing.) Scott had said good morning and was engaging her in conversation, but even he seemed to be sucked in by Emma's bubbly newness. Jean's stomach churned slightly.

She wasn't one for jealousy, but she couldn't deny the feeling.

* * *

Emma arched her back as she settled into the lounge chair and adjusted her oversize sunglasses (Gucci). She debated adding another layer of tanning oil to her already glistening skin, but decided that a tan wasn't work potentially ruining her new white Versace bikini over. It looked good; her pale skin had the absolute faintest glow to it, just enough to contrast the fine material of the suit. The halter top, she had ensured, was low cut enough to show off her fantastic cleavage, but supportive enough to be functional. She had high standards for clothing; never would she buy into a cheap trend. (She'd pay full price and be all over it six months before Americans even realized it was trendy.)

Whatever the Danger Room session was, she'd skipped it. The other students had explained it as some sort of extreme simulation room they used for training, which only served to justify her absence. She knew her powers enough to know that she didn't need any further training to master them. She was good, she was hot, and she was smart. If that confidence made her a bitch in the eyes of everyone else in the mansion - like she'd ever _really_ call it a mansion, with any seriousness - well, so be it, she'd be the resident bitch.

"Frost!" Her name was barked gruffly by a short man she'd never seen before. She lowered her glasses to stare at him with cold eyes.

"Do I know you?"

"You'll wish you didn't if you don't get your ass to the Danger Room right now."

A light dawned on her. "You must be Logan, correct?"

"Well I ain't Storm," he scowled. She noted appreciatively the way his shirt was partially unbuttoned to show off some very nice pectorals. Unfortunately, she knew, he wouldn't be the type for a teenage fling. She didn't even care that he was a good seven inches shorter than she was.

"Feel like escorting me?" she asked, innocently. "I didn't think I'd have to go, my training suit hasn't been shipped over yet."

"Right, that's cute." She'd never seen a grown man snarl before. Legitimately, animalistically, snarl. It was sexy. "Now, get up, grab your stuff, and let's get moving."

"What are we doing, anyway?" she asked, standing up and slipping into her leather sandals, the ones with the braided leather thong. She gathered her towel and spare clothes, deliberately taking her time. Rugged and manly as he was -and she had to admit a certain weakness for that type- she wasn't going to let him think that she was doing this to please him in any way. She slowly folded her tunic and tucked it into her white leather Linea Pelle satchel, doing the same with her leggings. She knew he was getting impatient, and she loved the feeling.

"What _you're_ doing is testing your defences. We're gonna see how you measure up."

"And how do _you_ measure up?" She paused for effect. "I bet you're the best of all."

"Get moving, Blondie." Logan sounded deadly. "Jean's waiting for you."

"Jean?" Emma felt like laughing. "Well then, I guess I should hurry up, shouldn't I? I wouldn't want to take her away from her other plans." _Moping, selling Girl Guide Cookies, and helping seniors cross the street,_ she wanted to add, but refrained.

She stepped ahead of him. It wasn't hard; her legs were much longer than his. She purposely swung her hips a little more than normal as she marched into the mansion, the beginnings of a plan forming in her mind.

* * *

_"You're a cunning girl, Emma," Winston Frost said. She could smell the Scotch he'd just poured. It was vintage. For once, just once, she picked up on an appreciative tone in his voice. He was proud of her. But he was anxious as well. He was drinking to cover the malaise she knew he felt. He hadn't expected this much from her; he hadn't broken her spirit yet, and he didn't know quite how to take it. "You remind me so much of myself at your age. Intelligent, ruthless, with a taste for blood. You'll go far, girl, if you only follow my example."_

She'd refused to follow his example. Stodgy hypocrisy wasn't her style and she'd told him as much.

But she'd go far regardless, she knew.

And it would start in that Danger Room.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

This is my first fic in a while - I have about three chapters already written, with more on the way. I hope to be on a pretty even two-three week posting schedule. If anybody finds any errors in my writing, let me know! I hope to bring some multidimensionality to Emma Frost's character - if all goes well, this will be the first arc in a three-part series.

Comments and constructive criticism are much appreciated!

**Edit:** It has been pointed out that Emma Frost isn't telekinetic. I am aware of this, and of her canon powers - her telekinesis has generally been shown as very latent, and will not be taking a primary role in the story. The gradual development of events in later chapters will be dealing with this issue, and Emma's later focus on telepathy.

Song lyrics used : Incubus - A Certain Shade of Green off the album _S.C.I.E.N.C.E. (1997)_


	2. Chapter Two : Carpe Doctorem

**Chapter Two - Carpe Doctorem**

She dressed for the Danger Room and to kill.

Emma took her time changing into a suitable outfit for her training against Jean Grey. She'd refused the common black uniform the professor had supplied, explaining that she had already ordered her own, which should be coming in any day now. It was partially true; she'd ordered an outfit, but it probably wasn't anything he'd like. She didn't care. Distraction was an important battle element, and anybody who saw what she'd thrown together would be too stunned to do much.

Logan was standing outside the door, and she felt his impatience radiating through the heavy oak door. She murmured slightly as she took off her bikini top and gave a soft sigh as she stretched, before slipping into a bra and white tank top. There was no way his ultra sensitive hearing would be able to block out her noises. He would never act on any of this, but that didn't stop Emma from trying. It was fun, irritating him like that, and she loved the surge of power it gave her to know that she was attractive to so many men.

She caught her image in the mirror and grinned slyly. Her body was hot and she was fully aware of it. The tank top rose up just high enough to show a sliver of tight lower abdominals and her leggings were formfitting to show off the shape of her long legs. It wouldn't do much for Jean except maybe annoy her, but it would definitely catch Scott's attention, and certainly that of every other male student in the Institute.

She paused before leaving the room to grab a small sachet from her leather Coach bag. She tipped out two orange capsules and dry-swallowed them, knowing that they'd kick in by the time she got to the Danger Room. She'd need them.

"Ready to go?" she asked Logan sweetly, flicking her long hair over her shoulder so that his nostrils would be flooded with Dolce and Gabbana's Light Blue.

He didn't answer. Emma rolled her eyes behind his back as she followed him down to the Danger Room, which didn't look as terrifying as the other students had built it up to be. She'd integrated herself well enough that they weren't going to exaggerate things, or try and haze her, but she was willing to bet that their experiences with Logan had tainted their impressions of the Danger Room.

She entered to a wolf whistle from Ray, who she shot a dazzling smile. She positioned herself directly opposite Jean Grey, arms crossed defiantly at her chest, which served to prop up her chest somewhat. Dislike and anxiety was radiating from the redhead. It was written in her posture, in the way her hair was moving. Emma smirked a bit, feeling her focus grow, feeling a heightened awareness of the room, noting every detail about her opponent.

"So, are you going to teach me something new, Jess?" Jean visibly bristled at the misnomer.

"Assume the defensive position, Blondie," Logan announced from the observation deck. "We'll stop when the defensive shield's been broken."

Oh God, too easy.

This was all going according to plan.

Emma looked at her nails absentmindedly as she concentrated on coagulating the air molecules in front of her into a telekinetic shield. The drugs were working, their focusing ability magnifying her telekinetic abilities to an average strength. Se didn't need to keep it up for long, just long enough. Jean would undoubtedly be trying to break the wall in the same way that Emma was building it. She wasn't one to use an apparent upper hand in training. Stupid girl.

But she was strong, too. Emma registered a little surprise as she felt her feet slide back against the cool metal floor. She increased her defences and bent her knees into a semi-crouch, raising her arms up to balance herself. Jean was pushing against it, hard. Her hair was flying from her head wildly, and Emma could see the sheen of sweat that was starting on her forehead. It was now or never, with the rush of blood in her ears, that she'd drop it.

It would hurt, she knew. Maybe she'd bruise for a week. Probably no broken bones if she used telekinesis to slow herself down and stop just short of actual harm. But it would be worth the momentary pain to get the upper hand.

She dropped the shield at the exact moment that Jean pushed harder. Her tall frame flew through the air and into the wall - or would at least appear to. Emma fell to the ground and slumped over as Logan, Kurt, Kitty, and Scott rushed to her side, Kurt holding a first aid kit.

"I'm fine," she said, fluttering her lashes. "Just... my head hurts a little bit. My back..."

"I'll help you to the infirmary," Kitty said, looking a bit nervous. "Can you walk?"

"I-I think so," Emma replied, her voice purposefully shaky. The next step was the most important. She attempted to rise to her feet, taking care to appear as wobbly and woozy as possible, using Scott's shoulder for leverage. Then, as she shook, the blood seemed to rush from her face as the scene faded to black.

* * *

That was a personal stroke of genius, she had to admit, knocking herself out like that. Nobody had expected it at all, and it had produced the desired effect. She'd fainted right into Scott's arms. Logan had carried her upstairs, and the rest of the student body was worried about her. Nobody had been the wiser. Perfect.

To be honest, she hasn't been quite sure how much longer she'd have been able to keep up the shield. Emma wouldn't admit it to anyone, but Jean had been right about the overexertion of her powers the night before. She still didn't have a full grasp on her telekinesis but just, with a little pharmaceutical help, enough to bluff with. And besides, she'd held it long enough to make herself look like the victim in an unfair fight.

It was a fantastic idea, really. Jean clearly prided herself on being the good girl, the responsible one, the role model for the rest of the students and the poster child to convince parents that the Institute was a good idea. She had the highest ranking among the students; she'd been there the longest, was probably the best trained, the best at everything. Emma Frost was better. She knew it, but it was only a matter of time before Jean would be forced to accept it. The proper power games had to be set into play so that things would fall as they should - with Emma on top of it all. She needed to usurp the current alpha female, and it was working.

She cracked open one bright blue eye and saw Kurt's concerned face by her side.

"Ve were worried about you," he said with a smile of relief. "It's been a few hours. Nobody's ever been knocked out like that before." His accent reminded her of a nanny she'd once had.

"Yeah..." Emma let her voice trail off weakly. "I don't know what happened. I had my shield up, and I guess I got distracted by something, but it felt like Jean was pushing harder, and the shield just shattered..."

"She's pretty upset-"

"She couldn't get a proper reading on your mind," came another voice. A hulking blue-furred man in a lab coat popped his head up from behind the partition. "Thought you'd sustained some permanent damage."

The Beast.

"I may be blonde, Dr. McCoy, but rest assured, my brain's working just fine." She emphasized her words by tapping gently on her temple. "Sharp as a tack."

He laughed, a deep belly laugh that turned her smile genuine. He seemed like a legitimately nice man, but so did a lot of people she wouldn't trust with a dog. He had muscle underneath that thick fur, incredible incisors, and a brain. He could be an ally... or an obstacle. She wouldn't get closer until she could get a stronger bearing on his motivations. So far, he seemed to pass the test, but it was too soon to tell. There was something feral lurking behind his joviality.

"Well then, with a brain as sharp as yours, you should know that you'll be sleeping in here overnight."

"Not in these hospital pyjamas," she teased, fingering the grey material of her gown. "Who changed my clothes, anyway?"

"That vould be Storm," Kurt said. There was a twinkle of mischief in his strange eyes. "But not vithout Bobby and Roberto protesting, I assure you."

"But of course," she said with a dramatic sigh. "I don't suppose I can get some of my essentials from my room?"

"I can get them," Kurt volunteered. "What did you need?"

"The list might be just a little long, darling," Emma laughed. "I've got quite the night routine going. It would be a shame to let anything happen to this face, don't you agree?"

She knew he agreed.

"But if you do want to help me," she added, "Maybe just grab the nightgown under my pillow, and my toiletry bag? The Louis Vuitton one, that's with my night regime."

He was gone and back in a matter of seconds. She thought she saw a rosy flush under his fur as he handed her the nightgown. Even Dr. McCoy's eyebrows were raised as she took the flimsy silver teddy from Kurt's outstretched hands.

"Danke, Kurt," Emma said in her best German, draping it over her pale forearm. "Can you give me a moment? I'd just like to get changed into something less depressing."

He backed out of the way as the curtains surrounding the bed moved to conceal her small area. Emma lowered the arm holding the small remote control. She took off the hospital gown without difficulty and pulled the nightgown over her head. It barely reached mid-thigh, and was slightly sheer. She loved it.

"I'm decent," she called after rearranging herself beneath the cotton sheets. It was a half truth.

"Too bad," she thought she heard Kurt wisecrack, and she smiled wickedly.

She flung back the curtains with an overdramatic flourish of the remote, without rising from the bed. What was left of the sunlight was streaming through the window. Kurt was perched on a nearby chair, whereas McCoy was back at his desk.

"So, where is everyone else?" she asked, fully aware that the others had come in shifts in the few hours she'd been "unconscious."

"Vell, dinner's over, so they're all sort of spread out around the mansion. Scott's trying to talk to Jean about what happened. She is really upset."

"I can't imagine why. It was just an accident." Emma's voice was dry.

"Kitty said she'd stop by later on, see how you're doing."

"Tell her I look forward to seeing her," she yawned, feigning exhaustion. "She's such a sweet girl."

"Ja, she likes you, wants to help you feel more at home. Then again," he added, teleporting so that he hung from the partition frame by his tail, "so do the rest of us. Don't take today too personally. It happens to everyone."

"If anything, " called McCoy, "Think of this as breaking down a barrier. The worst that could happen just has, now you can look forward to better things. It's a learning experience."

"Rest assured, I've learned plenty," Emma said softly. She couldn't keep the note of satisfaction out of her voice.

* * *

She had learned quite a bit, processing it as she stared at the white ceiling. Kitty, who had visited for about an hour, was a huge fan of designer wear and purses. She was genuinely sweet and a smarter girl than she let on. Despite her best efforts, Emma was starting to like her. She wasn't the most mature of the students, but she was refreshing and didn't have the guile to backstab. She was certainly a wealth of information about what was happening around the mansion.

Jean _was_ feeling incredibly guilty about the whole ordeal. It was a good thing that Emma's conscience was nigh non-existent, or she'd be eating herself up over it. Logan had apparently spoken to her about it, telling her to take it a little easier on the newbie next time, but had tried to be nice about it. That hadn't helped the redhead's guilt complex at all.

It would take a few more subtle digs to get Emma where she wanted. Popularity was next on her list. It wouldn't take much more effort to assert herself as the better, hotter, more fun Jean Grey. Once that reputation was set, she could take first ranking and use that to her advantage in shutting her down.

A naive soul would question her motivations. Naive souls didn't last long in the Frost household.

As anyone would rationalize it, the animal kingdom ran on hierarchies. Prides of lions functioned with one lead male slaughtering the rest of the male lions, while the head lioness kept all the other females in check. Deer mated by fighting off their rivals for the affections of others. Wolves killed for both status and reproductive rights. Humans were no more evolved. They'd adopted this primal urge to master into every sector of their lives. Corporations could not run without CEOs, teachers ranked higher than students but below superintendents, who ranked below the politicians in charge of education policies, who were often at the whims of individuals with particular sway. And even they ranked below the reigning political ruler. Humanity had evolved to thrive off this stratified system. Most people couldn't function independently; they needed someone to look up to. Cue the alpha.

Cue Emma Frost.

She delegated, barked orders, and breezed through social events like a pro. She learned the game early and every loophole to the rules. She could see the direct path to the top and she wasn't afraid to tear down whoever it took to get there. She'd spent too many years of her life in mediocrity, and now, finally free from barriers, the world was her oyster and she'd reap the pearls.

She didn't give a damn about the casualties.

* * *

_"You're a bright girl, Emma," Mr. Kendall - Ian- said, "you've got a gift for teaching. I've told you time and time again."_

_"Thank you, sir," she replied, blue eyes boring into his. He was slightly unnerved by her self-assurance. She hadn't dropped her gaze to her lap, giggled flightily, or attempted to dissuade him of his opinion. Rather, they'd conversed fluently about the problems within the education system, local politics, and modern literature. In short, she'd acted nothing like he'd expected a sixteen year old to act, and he was intrigued._

_So was Emma._

_"Though I highly doubt I'll be taking that career path." She was aware of the tension of her smile. "It's not in the cards." She brushed her pale bangs out of her eyes and adjusted her headband. It was forbidden to be in her cards._

_He was smiling. "Now, why is that? Certainly a girl with your self-possession could do anything you set your mind to. You're young and intelligent - you can do anything you want."_

_"I can do anything I want," she repeated softly. She knew it to be true. She was hyper aware of the way her chest heaved with her breathing, aware of how short her plaid skirt was. She knew the sinewy motions of her body as she'd fumbled with the hood of her car, the way she'd perched on the back bumper, debating who to call for a ride after her piece of shit vintage Mustang had broken down in the parking lot. "I can do anything I want."_

_She knew he'd been equally aware of it, offering her a ride, but she also knew that his intentions were pure as they could be under the circumstances. He seemed more focused on her intelligence than her designer handbag or the way her knee socks seemed to emphasize the length of her legs. She was focused on the way his strong hands gripped the steering wheel, the mastery with which he guided the car through the streets of Boston, from the private school to her home. She was struck by the casual way the collar of his shirt fell with the first two buttons undone after a day of class. He was still relatively young, mid -thirties, still attractive in that very adult way. She could smell the scent she knew as Old Spice -how plebeian- or maybe it was the hindsight filling in those details that justified her desire. Regardless, she was intoxicated by the overwhelming normalcy that he radiated, knew that she'd never get that sort of opportunity again._

_She decided to seize the moment as his friendly chatter seemed to fade to background noise. As if reading her mind, he pulled over to the side of the residential road near the mansion, looked at her with concern. He was asking her a question. Asking if she was all right, she looked dazed, was it the heat?_

_She wasn't listening._

_Carpe diem, she thought, leaning towards him with lowered eyelids and softly parted lips. Carpe doctorem._

_

* * *

_

She awoke with a start, heart pounding, strands of lustrous hair sticking to her sweaty cheeks as she struggled to free herself from the mess of the bed sheets. She caught a glimpse of her drawn and pale face in the mirror to her left. She looked a lot younger than she normally did. Dreaming had that effect on her. Then again, she couldn't say that anything she'd seen in her sleep in the past year was a dream. Memories, regrets, maybe, haunted moments, the game-changers. For the most part, they'd stopped. But every now and then, one would sneak up on her. This vision was a more pleasant one than most. Though doomed to end badly, she could still remember it with some fondness, even pleasure under the right circumstances. But tonight was not one of those nights. She was on edge tonight - maybe a reaction to the anti-inflammatory she'd taken, or a residual high from the painkillers. Maybe the Adderall was fucking with her dreams again. She hadn't wanted the other drugs, for fear of an interaction or lowered guard, and the thought that everything she'd worked so hard on was at such risk made her stomach churn.

She breathed deeply, ever thankful that Dr. McCoy had thought to crack open a window. She looked livelier with fresh air in her lungs. More like her usual self.

She'd be back to that self first thing in the morning, she vowed, settling back into the sheets, knees curled to her chest.

* * *

**Author's Note: **As always, I appreciate constructive criticism! Thank you to all who have watched this story, it's certainly an encouragement to write. This installment was somewhat delayed by midterm exams, but I'll be on a better schedule from this point on. Again, thank you for your support!


	3. Chapter Three : Hot Shot

**Chapter Three - Hot Shot**

The next morning's diagnosis was positive. No trauma, no bruising, no pain, not even a chipped nail after Emma's flight into the cold steel wall of the Danger Room. There was, however, a vase of flowers placed next to her table, and a straggling few students dropping in to see how she was doing. And she was doing well. The slight shadows under her eyes may have hinted at a restless night's sleep, but the queenly way in which she positioned herself in bed, and the sensual cut of her nightclothes suggested otherwise.

Jean visited as she was getting ready to head back to her room. Emma had let Kitty choose her outfit for the day, and the girl hadn't done too badly for a novice. She wore a simple iridescent white sheath dress, belted at the waist and quite short, with a pair of simple gold sandals. Despite their flat soles, Emma was still taller than Jean Grey. She liked the power dynamic it suggested, and noticed how uncomfortable and tense Jean looked with some inward glee.

"I'm sorry for what happened yesterday," Jean apologized with a deep breath. "It was never my intent to hurt you. It was a sparring session that got out of control, and I'm sorry that your first time in the Danger Room had to be like that. Are you feeling okay?"

Emma raised an eyebrow and smirked as Jean continued, looking momentarily unsure, then seeming to gather more self-confidence.

"I was thinking that maybe we got off on the wrong foot. If it's all right with you, I think we should just have a do-over. Try it all again from the beginning." She extended her hand in a gesture of peace.

Perfect game-changing moment right there.

Emma smiled broadly now, revealing white teeth. She shifted her weight to one hip, tapped a manicured finger against her chin. Seemed to pause before uttering one simple, devastating word.

"No."

* * *

Scott knew from the way that Jean stomped out of the medical bay that things with Emma hadn't gone well, and even though he liked to stay out of female politics as much as he possibly could -even in the Institute, with high enough estrogens levels that he feared his own eventual ovulation- he knew that this was one battle he couldn't remain neutral on.

"What happened, Jean?" he asked. She whirled around to face him, and it took a moment for her hair to settle into place after the force of her spin. She looked furious, distraught, even.

"She won't even agree to a do-over," she snapped. He hadn't seen her this upset in a long time. "She won't say anything. I apologized, and for what? She won't accept that it's an accident. She won't even shake hands. I just don't understand her!"

Her lips were pursed. Scott placed his hands on her shoulders and gave them a firm squeeze. "Hey, it's going to be okay. She'll smarten up. She'd probably just embarrassed after yesterday."

"Embarrassed?" Jean gave a short laugh. "The way she carries herself, I don't think she's even capable of humiliation, unless she's doling it out to everyone else."

"Of course she's embarrassed," he assured her. "Can't you tell?"

She muttered something under her breath.

"What?"

"No I can't, Scott. I can't get any reading off her that's any deeper than about what her clothes cost and how superior she thinks she is."

"I don't think anyone can be that shallow," he said, doubtfully. "Especially not a mutant. Being different kind of forces you to have a little depth."

"Not in her case. Do you know, that since she's gotten here, I haven't been able to talk to her about anything? Her head is like an issue of Cosmopolitan. She thinks I'm nothing." Her frustration was palpable, seeming to come off her body in waves, with such force that he could feel it.

Scott pressed his lips against her warm forehead, tenderly, holding her close. "I think you're everything," he said quietly. "And maybe she's having trouble adjusting to being around someone just as amazing as you are."

He could feel Jean relax in his arms.

"You're right, Scott," she whispered. "She probably still needs time to adjust."

"Give it a couple of days," he suggested. "She'll get over it soon enough. Promise."

* * *

Three days later and Emma Frost hadn't said more than four incredibly curt words to Jean. They'd been, in no particular order, "No; Jess; yes; mmhmm." Jean didn't count "Mmhmm" as a word but Scott liked to remain somewhat optimistic about these things. Rogue had had the same issues adjusting to life at the Institute, and she fit in just fine now, if it was really possible to ever "fit in" in a school devoted to the... genetically blessed, as Storm euphemistically put it. Granted, Rogue still had her misanthropic moments, still seemed emotionally shaky after the Apocalypse issue, but for the most part she was all right.

He didn't think Emma was all that bad, truth be told. He'd never openly admit it to Jean, not until things between the two girls reached some sort of equilibrium. Sure, they didn't see eye to eye, but Emma was certainly friendly with everyone else in the mansion. She and Kitty seemed to get along exceptionally well, if anything. She livened things up a bit. Having her around seemed to have an effect on the younger recruits - half the time she was around, they were on their best, most mature behaviour. The other half... they seemed to engage in incredible acts of bravado that he'd expect to see on a playground.

At least it was a start.

* * *

"Hey, Emma!" Bobby called from the other side of the pool, " Want a drink?"

"Only if you make it cold," she said, batting dark eyelashes. "I'm just dying of heat." There was a faint sheen of sweat on her skin. Bobby couldn't help staring at her chest as she lounged on a towel. He slid it over to her on a delicate bridge of ice that further cooled her Diet Coke, until a thin layer of frost developed on its aluminium can. His eyes grew wider as she picked it up with a smile of thanks and rested it first against her forehead, then her neck, before trailing it down to her chest, finally opening it take a drink.

"Cold enough?" he asked, watching her draw the can away from smooth pink lips.

She smiled and winked. "Almost too cold! I don't think the sun will be enough to warm me back up. Want to help?"

Holy shit, this was like the beginning of his own personal porno. She was smoin' hot, sexy as fuck, and looking at him like he was the only guy around. In the film roll that was his mind, she was walking over so that her hips swayed and her chest jiggled, and she'd kiss him with lips that would still he cold from her drink and then she'd step back, fix him with an intense gaze, put her hands on his shoulders, and -

"In that case, I can be of service!"

-and then Roberto entered the film reel Bobby had going and just completely killed it. There was too much sausage on the pizza. The last thing Bobby wanted to think of was Roberto in his tight Speedo, cannonballing into the pool and radiating enough heat to melt his ice bridge.

Friggin' cockblock.

* * *

Rogue had gotten into the habit of late-night snacking lately, even though every magazine, television health expose, and episode of the Biggest Loser seemed to scream that she was killing herself by eating after seven. She liked to rationalize that Logan's training was so intense that she'd never need to worry about being unhealthy, and could safely disregard that stupid rule.

Milk, raspberries, Count Chocula - breakfast of goth girls everywhere, she thought- and a mug of hot tea. She prepared them almost methodically, frowning when she grabbed the milk carton from the fridge. There was barely a trickle left. Nobody ever wanted to replace the carton. She rummaged around in one of the lower compartments of the fridge and emerged victorious with a full one. At least she knew that Kurt hadn't drank from this one yet. Or Kitty.

She settled into a chair and flipped on the television to the eleven o'clock news. Maybe Logan was rubbing off on her, but she liked to watch it and keep a pulse on what was going on in the world outside Bayville. Apparently, not much. Things were quieter now, two months after Apocalypse. The world seemed to be returning to normal, though as a mutant, Rogue held no false illusions that her life at Bayville High wouldn't be any different than it was at the end of the school year. The bullying, the open taunts - she might as well have just painted a target on her backpack. At least Scott and Jean managed to escape that cesspool. She still had a year.

She heard the fridge open, turned her head, and eyed the newcomer with some wariness. Jean Grey was hard enough for her to get used to - Emma Frost seemed to be her amplified, taller, blonder version. And right now, she was walking towards her with an apple and a cheese stick in her hands, looking like she intended to make herself at home. Well - technically it was her home. Emma sat down on a chair two spots down from her and rested her feet on the very edge of the table.

"Fancy seeing you here," Rogue said stiffly as means of a greeting. "Figured you'd still be in bed."

"Hello to you too," Emma replied dryly. She raised one eyebrow. "I don't think we've been properly acquainted. I'm Emma Frost." She extended one hand, and Rogue shook it. Emma had a firm grip for a girl. Rogue appreciated it.

"Rogue."

"I knew that, but it's still nice to affirm it, don't you think?"

Rogue spooned some more cereal into her mouth. "Yeah, I guess so." She seemed awfully friendly for her antithesis.

Emma peeled away a piece of her cheese stick and bit into her apple. She chewed every bite neatly and thoroughly. They sat in silence for a minute.

"So you're from the South? Your accent's charming."

"Maybe to you." Rogue was a bit edgy still. This seemed like a set up to some sort of attempt at humiliation. "You're from Boston, ain't ya?"

The girl seemed to tense a bit before smiling. "Yeah. How can you tell? Do I make it that obvious?"

"Nah, you look like you should be livin' in New York," she began, the name of the city curiously twisted by her accent. "But ya sound like you're from the Hub."

"Really now?"

"It's not obvious," Rogue continued, getting warmed up, "but you sound like it, just a little bit. If we were talking with a bunch of other people, I'd never notice it. I'm pretty good at placing accents." She was rambling a bit, didn't know why.

"I see."

Awkward silence cloaked them again, broken only by the voice of the newscaster.

"-And finally, in Finance, Frost Enterprises has risen a whopping fifty points in the stock market today, only weeks after Adrienne Frost was announced as vice-president of the company. Frost recently married Thomas Callahan, CEO of-"

Rogue heard the cheese wrapper being crushed. She angled her head just in time to see Emma's mouth form a thin straight line across her face. Her eyebrows were furrowed, her fist clenched the cheap plastic as if she were trying to choke it. She relaxed her grip just seconds after Rogue saw her do it.

"Family o' yours?" Rogue asked.

"Not in the slightest."

Emma's face was steely. Rogue watched her for a moment, seeing her perfect profile, but the new girl didn't move. Her cold eyes were fixed on the screen furiously, her face blank as the wall. Maybe it was inherent paranoia -she was still battling trust issues - but something, something small, bothered her about this.

* * *

_"I know your secret," Adrienne singsonged, her red hair worn curly with a headband. Her private school days may have been behind her, but she still dressed with the greatest of care. Meticulous. She was stunning. Emma hated her. _

_"What is it this time?" she sneered, flipping her own straight hair behind her shoulder. "The ring? Mother knows I borrowed it for the party." That was only half true. She'd told her mother she was borrowing it. Whether Mother remembered or not was an entirely different story._

_"I think you know," her sister said. The malice in her voice tainted every word. "Daddy won't be too happy when he finds out." Her grey eyes were piercing._

_"Go fuck yourself, Adrienne. Quit playing games. I've done nothing." _

_"Oh, I'm not playing, Emma Grace. Far from it." Her smile was so vicious that it almost made Emma nervous._

Emma kicked the punching bag again before striking it with her elbow. That was far behind her, and she had no desire to look back.

* * *

"Manolos or the Kors?" Emma asked absentmindedly. She twirled a strand of hair around a thin finger. Kitty held up both pairs of shoes.

"The Kors have more of an edge," Kitty suggested about a pair of short black boots with fine leather detailing and intricate silver buckles. "But the Manolos are a little more in-your-face fun. You know what mean?" She peered at the bright red pumps in appraisal.

"Give me the Kors," Emma sighed. She tugged on the supple boots and stood up. She'd decked herself in liquid leggings and a white tunic belted at the waist. She didn't feel like her usual self, and that disturbed her a little. It was the... well, she couldn't call it stagnancy of life at the Institute, but relative peace that made her nervous. Maybe it was how quiet Bayville was. She needed a change. Or maybe change was coming. She couldn't be sure, and the uncertainty knotted her stomach.

"Oooh," Kitty squealed in excitement, " I like it! Why aren't you modelling?"

"Because models are vapid bitches," she answered succinctly, "and I have no desire to have my intelligence underestimated due to my career choice."

"Oh." Kitty looked a bit uncomfortable. "Gotcha." She laughed awkwardly. "So, wanna, like, hit the mall?"

Shopping was good. Emma would be lying through her teeth if she said that material goods didn't brighten bad days. After all, she was the student who'd brought twelve fully-packed luggages with her, and an untold number of shoes. The amount of jewellery she owned was worth more than Logan's motorcycle. Her credit card was limitless. She was bored with her wardrobe, needed a few things to amuse her.

But this was Bayville. Middle of the suburbs of nowhere _Bayville._ If she was lucky, she'd find something that would have been cool three years ago. On the drive in, she'd sworn she'd seen a poncho advertised in one of the little boutiques on the main strip. It didn't bode well. She was willing to bet her life that there wouldn't be a pair of red-bowed Valentinos in the entire damn county. The prospects seemed dire.

"Emma?" Kitty was waiting, looking at her curiously. "Are you okay? You spaced out for a second there. How's your head, is it bothering you?"

Her concern was touching, if misguided.

"No, my head's fine, Kit," she replied, albeit absentmindedly. "Macy's or Saks?"

Kitty stared at her blankly for a minute. "What?"

"How do you feel about joining me for a weekend in New York?"

The air being squeezed out of her ample chest and the high-pitched squeal of joy more than answered the question.

* * *

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Charles?" Logan couldn't keep the doubt out of his voice.

"I don't see why not," The Professor replied, fingertips resting on his chin. "I understand your hesitation, Logan, but the girls are going for a quick shopping trip and a Broadway show. I doubt they'll get into anything they won't be able to handle."

Logan grunted. "And when they decide that the best way to handle it is by fading through a wall in the middle of Manhattan? People aren't exactly fond of mutants yet. I don't think either of them is ready for this. Too many things can go wrong."

_Mugging, rape, excessive drug use, Emma dragging Kitty into some sort of harebrained scheme to rob a jewellery store, because the girl couldn't seem to wear the same bauble twice-_

The Professor raised his eyebrows. Logan set his jaw. "I realize that you and Emma may not have gotten off on the right foot, and that you're worried for Kitty's safety-"

_Understatement._

"-but you must realize that in stopping them, you're going to come off as incredibly hypocritical. After all, they aren't embarking on a motorcycle trip to Northern Canada without a moment's notice."

He had a point, but that didn't mean that Logan liked it.

* * *

The weather was gorgeous, Scott noticed, walking the Institute's grounds. Still warm, sunny, and peaceful. The peace was what he wanted more than anything else. Logan seemed to be in a mood a shade worse than his perpetually cranky one, and Scott wasn't stupid enough to cross him. He didn't doubt that it was caused by Emma and Kitty's impromptu trip to New York. It had come like a bolt from the blue. One minute Kitty was lamenting about how incredibly boring her weekend would be, and the next, she was packing her bags for the next morning's departure. Jean hadn't been too thrilled about it either - apparently, she and Kitty had made plans to catch a movie on Saturday and... well, those had fizzled pretty quick. He'd stayed for a few minutes trying to calm Jean down, but...

He'd gotten out of the house the minute things started flying.

A bright green tennis ball whizzed past him, and he caught it almost without thought. A tall, blonde, girl was leaning over the tennis net, waving at him. Emma Frost. He approached with a friendly smile that she returned. She had the kind of smile that could make anyone feel important, he noticed, tossing the ball back.

"Singles today?" he asked, taking note of the empty courts.

"Single," she replied, stressing the last syllable. "Just me now. Working on my backhand."

"Alone?"

"Just me and the machine," she said, tilting her head in the direction of the ball launcher. A hockey net stood off to the side. Judging by the sheer amount of balls there, she'd been hitting them in for quite a while. And she was good at it. "Just like last night."

Scott chose to ignore that addendum, but felt his face getting red.

"I'm surprised nobody else is playing."

"Well, I had a good game going with Amara, but it turns out she didn't like losing."

There was a note of pride in her voice.

"And I'm sure you do?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Scott," she scoffed, smirking. She tapped his forehead. "I never lose. Unless you'd like to prove me wrong?"

Scott couldn't turn down a challenge like that, not with his competitive spirit. He moved the machinery out of the way, turned to face his opponent. He couldn't help feeling incredibly emasculated picking up Amara's bright pink tennis racket.

"Ready?" he asked, assuming the proper position.

"As always," she replied, crouching slightly. She threw the ball in the air and served it over with an incredible amount of force. Scott's wrist hurt from slamming it back. Emma returned it with ease.

"Where'd you learn to play tennis?" he asked, lobbing it over the net. This was pretty fun. They passed the ball back and forth between them for a minute.

"Andre Agassi."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope. He owed my father a favour, and my father wanted us to excel at everything, so you can do the math from there." As if to prove her point, she hit the ball with such force that it flew right past Scott and hit a tree before ricocheting off and knocking him in the back of the head. His hand instinctively flew up to hold his sunglasses in place.

"Hey, that was a cheap shot!"

"You should have been paying more attention, Mr. Vigilance."

"And you clearly did that on purpose."

"But of course," she said. She smiled again, a half-smile, brushing very blonde hair out of her eyes as she walked closer. She hadn't bothered to tie it back, which Scott didn't really understand. But he wasn't Professor X, he didn't know anything about how women's minds worked and he was pretty sure he didn't want to. "Just keeping you on your toes, hot shot."

She slid his glasses back into place before he wielded the racket once more with wounded pride. She was certainly doing a good job of that.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** We'll be seeing a little more rapid plot development in the next chapter, a little more drama than we've seen so far. =) As always, reviews are very welcome and encouraged! Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to do so, and to read what I have so far. It's very appreciated!


	4. Chapter Four : Aléatoire

It wasn't the Presidential Suite, Emma thought, throwing herself back onto the impossibly soft bed, but the Prince Edward Suite would have to do for the weekend. Her father, in one of his rare family moods, had brought them to New York for a month while he sat in negotiations with Donald Trump, and rented out the Suite for the duration of July. Emma had tried to get it, but on such short notice, she'd lost it to someone who'd booked in advance. Sadly, the room was smaller, but it would do. The view was nice, the beds were bigger and better than what she'd been subjected to in the Institute, and it was placed it a prime spot for what she had in mind. They'd be catching a quick showing of Chicago at eight, and then... Emma hadn't thought quite that far ahead, but New York never shut down and she'd be damned if she wasn't going to milk every minute of it.

There was the sound of a purse dropping to the ground. Kitty looked around the room in total shock, and Emma had to suppress her laughter at the younger girl's wide eyes and parted lips. "Ohmigod!" Kitty squeaked, looking around. "Emma, this is like, insane!"

"I know, I was hoping to upgrade, but we'll have to make due with what we've got." The extra rooms would have been nice. Maybe she'd be able to convince the concierge to bump them up, maybe move out the top guest. She _was_ still a Frost, after all.

"No, I mean... this is _incredible_, this is so, like, _New York_, you know?" Kitty was touching the drapes, staring out the window. She turned. "How much did this _cost_?"

Emma laughed throatily. "Never you mind," she replied with a wink. Her Platinum Amex was still securely in her wristlet. It would be a big bill to pay, but she was sure she'd find someone who'd be willing to donate. "But you better start getting ready to shop. We've got Broadway at eight."

"Broadway? What am I going to wear?"

"God, don't worry about it. You'll buy something, I'm sure. It's just a show, it's not a gala." So blasé. Emma remembered being about six or seven, when Broadway shows seemed to be the height of entertainment. Years and hundreds of formal events later and some of the sparkle had been replaced by tarnish, but there was still a faint glow of nostalgia that emanated from the concept.

That was what she somewhat envied about Kitty. The girl was jumping on the bed, zooming around the room, staring out the window with the same sense of wonder that Emma had lost by the time she was ten. Sometimes it felt like she was trapped in a jaded cage; little excited her anymore. Joy had been replaced by survivor's instincts so long ago that she could barely remember what excitement felt like. Still, she could not, would not, have survived if her cynicism hadn't been there, living at the forefront of her mind. She'd seen too much in her life, from such a perspective, that she doubted that she'd ever experience wanton abandon. She wasn't foolish enough for optimism, occasionally regretted her bitterness. And yet she was forced to embrace it, take it as yet another evolution of her personality that would lead her to succeed where others would inevitably fail.

She shook herself out of the thought, took a last look at the suite. Less contemplation, she ordered herself. More shopping.

* * *

Rogue wandered the hallways of the Institute with no set pattern, barely looking at the gorgeous mid-August day that winked through the tall windows. She couldn't enjoy it. It was altogether too humid for her, too oppressive to match the sunlight. Were she back in Mississippi, she could have handled the weight of the air; it seemed out of place in East-Coast Bayville, sinister, even. It was quieter without Kitty around, though the air remained tense.

Jean was in a Mood. Thought she tried to hide it, Rogue had been inside her head before, and knew to a certain degree the tics the older girl put on when trying to keep calm. She was quieter, there was a certain tilt to the eyebrows, that screamed dejection. Scott seemed to switch between sticking to Jean's side like glue and making himself scarce. Rogue didn't blame him. Sam had managed to wake everyone up with an impressive banging noise. Logan? Well, she thought, nobody could ever call him optimistic, but he seemed to be crankier than usual.

It was a good day to keep her head down and away from the others.

She caught a shadow out of the corner of her eye, maybe thought she saw a flash of red outside the window. Rogue whirled around, confused, walking towards it. There was nothing there. Shaking her head and rubbing pale palms into her eyes, she let out an aggravated sigh and continued her walk. First her head and now her eyesight - was there anything that _wasn't_ wrong with her?

* * *

Her plants were happy today. Ororo moved her hand over a fern, watching with serene contentment as a small cloud burst bountifully over it, marvelling at the way the water droplets ran over the leaves and collected at the tips of the fronds before dripping into soil. At least something in the Institute was peaceful - she'd been awoken early that morning by the unmistakeable sound of Sam Guthrie ramming into the ceiling, having been shocked by the sound of Logan banging on his room's door.

She turned to focus her attention on a tiny but determined cactus that she'd affectionately named Evan. Gave it a little more water, but not much. Maybe it was her imagination, but since she'd taken special liking to it, it seemed to be growing at an accelerated rate. Just like its namesake.

There was an interruption in the sunlight coming into the room. Ororo raised her head, but saw nothing; it was back to full August blast, so bright that it lit even the furthest corners of the room. A bird perhaps? But so large as to block out the window? Angel, perhaps, but he had no reasons for visiting, or avoiding the front door.

Strange.

* * *

"Pressure getting to you, Cannonball?" Ray teased, jumping over a log and rolling underneath shrubbery while a small robot walked by, its feet just visible in his line of vision. Beside him, Sam's breath was heavy.

"No. Why'd you ask?"

"You're looking a little gray up top."

"Oh for-" Sam sat up, rubbing his scalp with his fingers. Residual dust floated away from his head; the larger chunks flew off and settled happily on the shoulders of his uniform. "Can it."

Ray sniggered, but his mirth quickly turned to business as the robot turned and fixed them with a sensor, making an unsettling clicking noise. Like an alarm. Fuck. He sent a small shockwave towards it, rejoiced silently as it sparked and began to smoke.

"How much time do we have left?" he asked, eyes darting around. He couldn't see much from his vantage point, but it was enough to discern that they were alone.

"Seven minutes," Sam whispered, shuffling closer on his elbows. "Think we can make it?"

"Yeah," Ray answered, "if we can keep quiet, we'll be fine. They've got no clue we're here."

"Sweet," the other boy affirmed, with a sigh of relief. They'd lost Bobby half an hour ago to a trip wire and six Jamies to a ditch. Roberto had been netted under a set of shady trees.

"Hey, is it getting warmer, or is it just me?" He felt a wave of heat wash over his back.

Sam looked at him. "Yeah, you're right. Hotter n' hell now. Crazy summer."

"Brighter, too," Ray said, looking confused. The shade seemed to be lifting.

"Unlike you two," came a voice from above. An all-too-familiar voice. Ray groaned, rolled over, looked up. Jubilee stood over them with a superior grin.

"You didn't even notice that Magma _singed off your hiding place_," Tabitha laughed, hands on her hips, tilting her head towards a very smug Amara, who shifted back to human form. The sheer heat of her transformation had reduced the leaves to shrivelled and dried shadows of themselves.

"How did y'all even _find_ us?" Sam complained, sitting up.

"Well, Hansel," Rahne said, shifting to human form, "We jest followed the trail of breadcrumbs you left behin', dinnae we?" Her smile was equally spirited.

"_Plaster,"_ Sam insisted, face growing redder by the second. "_Plaster."_

"Either way," Jubilee cut in, "We win." She kicked Ray in the shoulder, not enough to seriously hurt, but enough to wound his pride.

"Which means _you_ get to clean the X-Jet," Amara added, drawing herself up to full, still tiny, height. Ray briefly debated giving her a little shock, but decided against it. Amara had very definite ideas about how a princess was to be treated - she'd improved since she first arrived, but wouldn't take kindly to electrocution. And by "wouldn't take kindly," he meant "burn your hair off at the roots."

Fuck him senseless, it was going to be a long day.

He dragged himself up off the ground, helped haul Sam up, and brushed the dirt from his uniform. The boys started the long, slow, walk of shame towards the garage, where they'd last seen Logan, and knew they'd have to report their failure. Ray wished he'd be assigned two hundred pushups again - the X-Jet would take hours to clean.

The girls bounded ahead, lead by a lupine Rahne, as the boys miserably took up the rear.

"We tried," Sam said with an easy shrug, "We'll get 'em next time."

Ray waved the ensuing cloud of dust away from his face before speaking. "Next time you wake up," he started, "how about climbing out of bed like a normal person? Or showering?"

"I'll keep that in mind next time Jubilee takes over the bathroom," Sam drawled dryly. "It'll end real well." They continued their walk, bickering half-heartedly. Suddenly, Ray's ears perked up to the sound of rustling leaves.

"Dr. McCoy?" he called, peering up at the trees behind him. Nothing. A dead bird fell out of a nearby tree, its neck curiously twisted. But beyond that - eerie, dead silence.

"Ray, will you quit dallyin'? Won't make Logan go any easier on us."

_Fuckin' weird._

* * *

"I can't believe the manager just _gave_ us these," Kitty said breathlessly as they walked out of the boutique. She clutched the shopping bag containing her new Hermes purse as if it was made of gold. Emma laughed, flicking a strand of long blonde hair over her shoulder, adjusted the strap of her own bag.

"Trust me, Kit," she started, "they just give these things away to people with the right connections. That's their form of advertising - a celebrity gets seen with the new It Bag and everyone wants one. They benefit from this." The tone of her voice was confident, assuring. It should have been - it had been oh-so-easy to convince the manager that they should be given the bags. Too easy, even.

Emma could barely remember when doing something like that was actually difficult. They'd walked in - Kitty walked, Emma strutted - browsed, and incurred the suspicious glares of a couple of shop girls. She'd demanded to speak to the manager, leaned over the counter to look the woman dead in the eyes and... convinced her that the gift would be in their best interest. She'd tripped over her own two feet scrambling to the back to get them.

"Are you serious?" Kitty asked her, raising an eyebrow. The girl was whip smart, but Emma was sure she hadn't caught on.

"Very much so," she insisted in a tone of voice that meant the matter was final. Thankfully, the younger girl didn't press the matter further, and instead seemed content to chatter about the rest of their day. Emma knew she'd been to New York once or twice before as a kid, but hadn't experienced the city yet.

It was a pleasant break from Bayville, and even more so knowing that at the moment, she was stable. They'd only been gone a matter of hours, and already, she felt some of the listlessness give way - granted, that may have also been the morning break from the Adderall. She needed the time off it. Desperately.

It was even nicer that her trip had caused a great deal of anger to resonate from a particular redhead back at the Institute. She'd banked on that, relished in seeing her wave goodbye to Kitty while Emma dismissed her with a curt, "Later, John." Life was looking up, for now, but she still had things to do. This would be a welcome change, but afterwards, when she returned, it would be all about the training.

She couldn't let herself be distracted from her goal.

* * *

Kitty would be lying if she said that she wasn't enjoying every second of being in New York. It was a huge city, and she hadn't had the chance to enjoy it as a tourist since she was just a kid. It was beyond nice to be able to relax and walk around without the stigma of her mutation, without everyone recognizing her face or looking at her like she was some kind of freak. She'd had enough of that back in Bayville; at least in New York, nobody cared and nobody looked at her funny.

They looked at Emma, though, and Kitty understood why, or at least thought she did. She was pretty, and tall, and blonde, and she just had the air of being so much older than she actually was. She'd been able to sweet-talk the ticket desk into giving them seats towards the front, towards the centre of the theatre. It was absolutely crazy how well she could charm them. Kitty couldn't think of anyone else she knew who could do that.

And a little weird, too. Not like she was complaining or anything -it was better than being shoved into a locker- but Kitty had never experienced treatment like that. It was so _foreign_ to her that people were practically begging to do things for them. The sales clerk had _insisted_ on giving them half-price on their dresses from the snazzy boutique. Then there was the matter of the purses. She'd never owned anything that expensive, ever, and they'd gotten two of them, plus wallets, for free.

The perks were undeniable. And Emma was really nice, too - it was like having a cool older sister who didn't mind taking you everywhere with her. She didn't feel young, or belittled, around her. They could talk fashion, talk boys, talk music, and Emma never made her feel anything less than welcome. She couldn't understand why Jean had been so annoyed about their trip - they were going to see a movie, but it would still be out for a few weeks more, so they'd be able to see it before school started. Weekend trips to the city were a lot harder to coordinate.

"Ready for the show?" Emma asked. She was wearing the classy white dress she'd bought earlier, and was lazily flipping through the programme. "Curtain's going up in a few more minutes."

"Hell yeah!" Kitty responded with excitement. Chicago was gonna be awesome. Watching _Glee_ had given her way more appreciation for musical theatre, and part of her wanted to be up on that stage, too. Maybe she'd take lessons, or ask Jean what she thought. And Kurt could totally give her an honest opinion on her singing voice.

The lights dimmed, the curtain began to rise. The night was just beginning.

* * *

"Quit powdering my food!" Jamie complained, scraping the gravy off his roast beef with a look of disgust in Sam's direction. Sam smiled sheepishly before digging into his own plate with some pain. His shoulders hurt from waxing the X-Jet; lifting his fork to his mouth was a serious effort. They'd finished in record time, Jamie having split into twelve very eager assistants, but it didn't make the punishment any less gruelling.

He'd have taken the mines back home any day over that.

"How ya feeling, Bobby?" he asked his team mate, who gave him a look of wounded pride. It had killed him to lose to the girls. That much was obvious.

"Like someone smashed a truck into my lumbar vertebrae."

"Quit complaining, gentlemen," Kurt cut in, dropping down from the chandelier, grabbing a roll, and popping back to his seat. "Not like you haven't cleaned it before."

Sam had to grudgingly agree with that statement. He could still remember the punishment for their joyrides. Thankfully, they'd smartened up. Now they'd learned to fill up Scott's gas tank afterwards, and that stoplights were more than just suggestions. As long as Bobby steered clear of speed bumps, small animals, and areas with pretty girls, they were guaranteed a smooth ride.

"I wasn't even involved last time, " Roberto muttered under his breath. "Doesn't make it any less humiliating."

"I can't believe we lost to the girls," Bobby said though a mouthful of potatoes.

"Makes us look like a bunch of-"

"Pussies?" Tabitha said acidicly, cutting Ray off before he could finish his sentence. "You know we can hear you, right? Get over it, guys." No matter how much he heard her swear, it never failed to amaze Sam just how foul-mouthed she could actually be.

"Maybe th' next time you'll stand a fighting chance," Rahne said with a laugh. She had nice teeth, though unnervingly sharp. Such a strange thing to notice.

"Yeah," Tabitha added, "Next time, we'll be sure to help you guys out. Wouldn't want you to be left in the dust again."

"This might help you with that," came a louder, significantly calmer voice. Sam turned around to find Dr. McCoy standing behind him, one arm draped over the back of his chair. He dropped a heavy plastic bottle into his lap, and Sam picked it up. It was mostly white, with a dark blue lid that flipped open to reveal a pale blue, viscous, liquid.

Dr. McCoy continued, "Ever since I grew fur, I started to have the same problem as you do. This is a miracle for dandruff."

He turned the bottle around, stared at the label. Head and Shoulders.

"For the last time, it's _plaster!"_

* * *

"That was an awesome show," Kitty enthused as they stepped out into the brightly-lit night. "Alison Blaire was, like, unbelievable!" Emma emerged from the theatre doors a step behind her, looking like a vision in white.

"Agreed," she replied, getting a look of excitement on her face.

"The lighting effects were _so_ crazy," she continued, hoping to coax Emma into further conversation. "I'm surprised they could do something like that."

"Mmmm." Emma looked pensive, mischievous. "So, what shall we do tonight, Kit?" she asked, tapping her bottom lip with her index finger. It sounded like a rhetorical question. A taxi screeched to a halt in front of them, almost as if called, and they got in without hesitation.

"Aren't we going back to the hotel?" she asked, confused. It was 10:30.

"I meant after that,," Emma replied, brushing the bangs out of her eyes. "The city doesn't sleep, so why should we? We should go dancing." She seemed to light up just talking about it.

"Emma-"

"I know a fantastic place. The DJ is wonderful, and bottle service will be excellent -they don't cheap out-"

"Emma," Kitty interrupted again. "How are we even going to get in? We're not legal. And all age clubs seem kind of sleazy." She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the idea. She'd heard horror stories before, and she wasn't interested in having a forty year-old dancing too close to her. Besides, it seemed to be going against Logan's very emphatic 'Stay outta trouble, kid, and don't do anything stupid' parting words.

"Oh, don't worry about it," Emma replied flippantly. She was getting more excited by the second. "We'll be able to get in. I have my ways."

Somehow, Kitty didn't doubt that for a second.

* * *

It was loud, crowded, and, if the clientele was any indication, terribly expensive to go to _Aléatoire_ for the evening. Emma had been right about having some sort of connection to the club; she'd just looked the bouncer straight in the eye, smiled, and they'd gotten in. Never mind that Kitty felt so much younger than the rest of the crowd - she knew for a fact that she was significantly so, but rather than worrying her, the idea was thrilling. And she was dressed in some seriously swanky clothes, borrowed from Emma's suitcases. She was wearing a short white dress with a halter neckline and some heavy silver bangles. Her hair was piled up, exposing her neck, and she gripped a small Coach wristlet -expendable, Emma had called it- in one hand. Emma stood tall in white heels, in a stark white bandage dress, cut very short, with long hair flowing straight to the waist.

The music throbbed, enveloping them in its beat as they were shown to the booth that Emma had managed to secure for them. Kitty didn't feel the need to ask why, as she was too busy gawking at some of the other patrons. She was pretty sure that wearing so little clothing could be considered illegal in most states. She was also certain that whatever pills were getting passed around were probably illegal as well. She also became acutely aware with each passing second that she was out of her league in the club. High school parties were one thing, chilling with seniors another, but this was something entirely different than what she'd been used to. These were easily college kids, possibly older - that meant there could be a ten year difference, easily, between her and some of the guys -men- dancing around. And the way they were shooting her looks made her feel increasingly nervous.

_They're drunk,_ she assured herself, _they don't know anything. They don't know I'm a mutant, they won't do anything-_

"Don't worry about it," Emma said, cutting into her thoughts as if she could read them. She had already mixed together vodka with some of the mixers, and was handing it over seemingly without care. "You'll be fine. I'll keep an eye on you."

She took a sip of her own drink, and Kitty followed suit. She wasn't a stranger to alcohol -though the last time she'd tried, she'd woken up with a splitting headache and Logan's intense disapproval. By disapproval, she meant wrath. This particular drink seemed made strong, and she could taste the alcohol through the cranberry juice. Emma didn't seem to have a problem with hers. Rather, she seemed to be relaxing with each sip, which only made Kitty want to finish her own. She didn't want to seem like a kid, not here, not where they could get into serious trouble for being underage.

Emma's long fingers wrapped around her wrist and Kitty barely had time to place her drink on the table before being bodily dragged onto the dance floor. She was surrounded by people, all gyrating wildly to the music. Emma was right; the DJ was fantastic, and soon Kitty began to lose her sense of worry, and surrendered to it. It was going to be a hell of an experience, and at that point, she couldn't see herself regretting any of it.

* * *

It felt like they had been dancing for mere minutes, but Kitty knew that hours had passed. A few tendrils of hair had escaped their bun, and her forehead was warm. She'd been jostled around by the much taller crowd and her feet were just starting to hurt. Emma was there, dancing in front of her, looking as though she had no care in the world, and though she knew that everyone's eyes were upon her.

And then she was gone.

Kitty had turned her eyes away for just a second, a split, tiny, second, just to check the time on her phone. It was nearing two in the morning, and she'd tucked the phone away and looked up, fully expecting to fill Emma in on the time. Where there was once a girl was now a solid mass of people who looked more and more wasted by the second. Even in tall heels, Kitty was unable to see over the throng, and her heart began to thud in her chest. Where did she go?

She couldn't breathe, everyone seemed to be pressing into her as the music grew louder and the DJ switched the song. Kitty tried to fight her way through the wall of people that seemed to be closing in around her, tried to ignore the sticky feeling of sweaty skin pressing against her own as she searched and called for her team mate, phasing through a hand reaching out to grope her. Thankfully, people seemed to drunk to notice, and she finally arrived back at the booth, littered with glasses from when they'd been joined by the cast of a hot new reality show, all of whom seemed to have left at some point earlier in the night.

Where was Emma?

* * *

**Author's Notes: **My apologies for the delay in updating - exams are never pleasant! As always, reviews are encouraged and very welcome.

As a thank you to my readers (and admittedly, a way for me to write something I might not otherwise) I'd like to hold a small contest. You have 500 words maximum, longer than a drabble, but shorter than an epic, to sell me a couple or a character. Your prompt is **"snow day"** and you can use it however you wish, but be creative! Just publish your story by **December 22nd, **and I'll have a one-shot written about your character/couple of choice by the New Year.

As a bonus, here's hoping the community traffic increases as well!


	5. Chapter Five : Hellfire

"How did you manage to get from Bayville back here so quickly?"

"Deus ex machina, boss," the man replied, shrugging. "She's not there."

A furious noise. "What can you tell me about her whereabouts?"

"I'd tell you, but I'd be spoiling the plot. Are you sure she's there? She's been on the move for weeks."

"Emma is nothing more than a leech. Trust me, she's there. They've got something to offer her, I'm sure of it. Keep an eye on the Institute. She'll turn up."

"And in the meantime?"

"Phase two. I'll duck out around eight tomorrow evening. Be thorough."

* * *

When she saw him across the crowded dance floor, it was all over. God, he was gorgeous. She was drawn to him like a milky white moth to some darker fire, barely noticed herself crossing the room to dance up to him, her hips swaying suggestively as they locked eyes. He didn't say anything and he didn't have to. He was intoxicating. Taller than she was, even in heels, dark and rakishly-haired, with wicked blue-green eyes and broad shoulders underneath a silk shirt with the first two buttons carelessly undone. He had just a hint of a goatee. He was older than she was, but she knew she could handle whatever it would take to have him. She'd never let age be a barrier before, and she wouldn't start now.

He drew closer to her as they danced. He was smooth in his movements, unlike most boys. His eyes travelled up her body, lingering appreciatively, then met her own, where they remained unwavering. She didn't blink, didn't feel the need to. He took her breath away. There was something in that gaze that seemed to block out the music, leaving only the thudding bass of the beats - or was that her heart racing? She couldn't tell. She didn't care. She wanted him. He even smelled amazing, and she stepped even closer, placing her arms around his neck and smiling flirtatiously as she breathed it in.

"You move fast," he whispered, his voice raspy, deep, incredibly refined.

"Is there any other way?" she asked, suggestively moving her hips against his to the tune of the music she could faintly hear.

"I can't deny that," he laughed, low, sexily. "What's your name, Blondie?"

"Emma," she said throatily, not even minding the moniker she so normally detested. From his lips it sounded endearing. "What's yours, stranger?" Their lips were maybe two inches apart.

"Call me Seb."

"I could call you any number of things," she teased, "handsome, devilish, a fantastic dancer and by that token... a fantastic lover, Sebastian." She noticed his eyebrows raise as the corner of his mouth quirked up.

"You're one for formalities," he noted, grinning, good-natured. "I see you've figured out my full name. How'd you do that?"

"Maybe I read your mind."

"There's no denying you're magical. And if you've gotten that dreadful thing out of me, then I may well have to give you the rest of my name. It's a mouthful."

"I'm sure it is," she echoed, playing with the innuendo.

"Well then," he said, hands on her hips, "I'm Sebastian Hiram Shaw."

For all she cared, his name may well have been Adonis.

"Emma Grace Frost."

"_Frost?"_

* * *

"What is it with wealthy families and long names anyway?" Seb asked, shaking his head, laughing between furious kisses, running his hands all over her body and they moved to the back of the club.

"Compensating for something," she retorted, pausing to kiss his neck.

"Mom liked to say it's because we could afford to have the extra letters engraved on everything." He winked. Emma was smitten. She'd never seen someone wink and have it not look sleazy, or like a nervous tic. He was charming. "I still don't know if she was kidding or not. She's a big fan of monograms."

She laughed before pressing her lips to his own again.

"How about my hotel room?" she suggested, looking up at him. She licked her lips.

"How old are you, Emma?" he asked.

"Old enough," she breathed in response. She ran a long, manicured fingernail across the waistband of his jeans. "Trust me, I can handle myself, and anything you throw at me."

"Oh really?"

"My age belies my maturity, darling. I've done things that could make your hair curl."

He chuckled deep in his throat.

"I don't doubt that, Emma, not with your fine breeding."

"What's that supposed to mean, Shaw?" She was still playful.

"What I'm getting at is that you're the kind of person I need in my life. Smart. Powerful. Ambitious."

"You forgot witty and fashionable."

"I didn't want to state the obvious." _So fucking smooth_, she thought, though it wasn't with any sort of malice. The sound of his deep voice pulled her out of her mind.

"Aren't you here with a friend?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Another girl-"

_Shit. Kitty._ Emma felt a twist in her stomach. She'd have dismissed it as guilt, but that was preposterous. She was incapable of feeling that. What she did feel was stupid. She'd been so intoxicated by Seb that she'd forgotten all about her companion, who, despite training as a mutant, wouldn't last ten minutes on her own in a club full of people getting progressively more inebriated by the minute. The girl had a few drinks in her, which wasn't going to make matters any easier.

* * *

Kitty was terrified, disoriented, and suffocating from the oppressive heat in the club. The sweat dripping into her eyes made her makeup run to the point where she felt blinded. The music was way too loud, the crowd way too thick, and she was having trouble breathing, forget finding Emma. She needed to get _out_, away from the grabby hands, and away from the once-glamorous crowd that now seemed vapid, wasted, and dangerous. It was late - or was it early? Had the sun come up yet? It felt as though she'd been there for days now. She could have spent a week in Aleatoire and not noticed the passing of time.

She couldn't even find the door, didn't see a single bouncer who could help her. Emma was nowhere in sight. The bathroom seemed the best idea; washing her face would wake her up, and she could see the sign flashing somewhere to her left. She stumbled there, tripping in her too-high heels, grateful that Emma's dress was a tad too long for her to result in any accidental flashing.

The door was ajar, and Kitty entered the bathroom, stumbling to the counter and throwing herself onto it's gloriously cold marble surface before splashing her face with cool, refreshing, water. She felt much better after smearing some of the mascara away from her eyes, and rejoiced in her ability to see clearly once more. Despite the behaviour of the clientele, the bathroom only served to reinforce the exclusivity and expense of the club. The selection of cologne bottles artfully arranged beside her head were all designer. The towels were so soft that she could have used them as pillows for her tired head. The tiles were black marble, riddled with sheer white swirls; the taps were intricately carved, and the paintings festooning the walls looked like incredibly expensive original works. Even the urinals -

Urinals. Oh God. Ohhh no. This was _not_ happening to her. The men's washroom - how could she have been so stupid, that explained the cologne...

"Hey!" A young man said groggily, stumbling into the bathroom. He lurched over to the sink and proceeded to vomit forth the contents of his stomach mere inches away from Kitty's elbow. He then turned his face towards hers and gave here a particularly chunky, but sheepish, grin. That was the last straw. Kitty's own stomach churned from the stench, and she shrunk away from him, back against the wall. Her eyes watered, her throat contracted, her innards were dancing-

And the next thing she knew she was doubled over in the back alley, vomiting, the taste foul and intrusive.

"Ew," she said, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. The air, though muggy, was still cooler than inside the club. She coughed, tried to clear the acid from her throat. She was struck by a wave of exhaustion, leaned her head against the brick wall to steady herself. Her knees felt weak and her feet were just starting to ache in her too-high heels.

"Hey there, kiddo," boomed a voice from the end of the alleyway. A dark silhouette blocked the exit, flanked by another four.

"A bit young to be hanging around here, dontcha think?" asked another. His tone of voice implied that he was thrilled to have discovered her.

"Uh, no, not really," she replied weakly. "Anyway, I should go-"

She willed her body to phase away, but couldn't. Her knees suddenly felt like Jell-O, her brain moved at about that speed.

"Aren't you gonna take off those pricey shoes of yours?" one guy -the biggest, maybe the leader?- asked. He came closer, and the yellow light of the streetlamps illuminated a square face with heavy eyebrows. He was huge.

"Your feet have gotta be killin' you from thuh dancing," said another. "We'll take 'em off your hands."

"And the jewellery, too."

"There's gotta be cash in that bag," said yet another. Thin, small, dressed all in black. "Grab it."

"Girl like you, dressed all fancy, comin' round to this club, you gotta come from money, dontcha?" Asked one of the men. He was second to have spoken, tall, broad, and giving her a slow, sneaky, grin. "How much do your parents love you?"

She didn't know when they'd surrounded her, but the next thing Kitty felt was a crushing pain in her upper arms as the biggest man grabbed her from behind. _Phase, _she begged her body, _I need to get away, I just need to get inside again._ The adrenaline coursed through her veins, but her nerves weren't responding. Even her breathing seemed to be in slow motion.

"Quarter million?" the speaker continued. He grazed a finger underneath her chin, and she shuddered. "Maybe half. You've got some expensive shit on you, girlie, and your kind don't work to buy it. Got yourself some loaded parents, I'll bet, and your daddy'll pay if he wants you alive."

She hoped they were bluffing.

"What the fuck?" the big one spluttered as he let go of her arms. Kitty could hear the snapping noise as one of the other thugs pulled out a knife. Another rattled the chains in the pocket of his baggy jeans. Wait. He let go, this was her chance. She prepared to run -

And looked down to realize why she couldn't. She'd phased all right, to the ankle, in the asphalt. They were staring at her, entranced, looking delighted, even. Her innards turned, and she thought she might lose balance at any moment.

"Holy fuck," yet another thug breathed. "Bitch is a fucking mutant."

"Fuck your parents, girl. Wonder how much the labs'll pay for you," the leader said. The gleam in his eyes was terrifying.

* * *

"Doesn't she have a cell phone?" Seb asked. His tall body parted through the crowd with ease.

"I don't think she can hear it," Emma replied, keeping apace with little difficulty. There was a yelp of pain as the heel of her left stiletto jabbed a stranger's foot. She didn't care. She couldn't see a damn thing. "Music's a bit loud, if you hadn't noticed."

"Sarcasm doesn't help matters."

"Neither does pointless talking."

They continued to search. The booth was empty, the bathrooms full of puking partiers. The DJ hadn't seen her, and the dancing throng was so thick that even from her vantage point, Emma saw no trace of her tiny team mate.

"Fuck," she said. She rubbed her temples, calculated the wisdom of her next move. Did she dare try it? "Okay, let me think, Seb," she said. She closed her eyes, tried to tune out the thumping bass. They flew open once more, and her face was drawn.

"What about the alleyway?" she suggested, grabbing his wrist. He shot her a curious look.

"That's a very specific suggestion, Emma-"

"We've searched everywhere else," she snarled. "Do you have a better idea, Shaw?"

"I suppose not," he groused. He rolled up his shirtsleeves as they made their way outdoors. "You've got some explaining to do when this shit is over."

* * *

"Pull her out, dipshits!" the leader shouted in exasperation.

"How the fuck're we gonna do that?" one replied, running a hand through dark hair. "We've been tryin'. We're gonna break her ankles if we keep pulling."

"Then fucking break them!"

"But how did she get in there?"

"Maybe she can get out the same way!"

Kitty swayed forward as the biggest man pushed her. Her ankles hurt, and she thought she might throw up on someone's shoes. She couldn't get out. Even if she could, she didn't think she could run more than a few feet before the increasing dizziness brought her to her knees. Instead, she stayed standing, slumped over with hands on her knees, taking enormous gulps of air, though the stench of the sewer did nothing to eradicate her nausea.

"Don't touch her, you cretins," came a girl's commanding voice. It was followed by a cracking sound as the leader stumbled forward, clutching the back of his head. Behind him stood a tall, pale, figure, dressed in white, returning her foot to the ground with a dangerous smile.

_Finally,_ Kitty thought, _Emma._

* * *

She returned her foot to the ground neatly, revelling in the click it made against the ground, though internally bemoaning the dandruff that seemed to attach itself to the toe and the trace blood on the heel. They were expensive shoes, but at least Wolverine's (mostly useless, in her opinion) training had put them to good use. Emma struck a confident pose, knowing that tall, strong, Seb was standing behind her. She could smell his cologne. Chanel, she thought. Her arms were crossed over her chest, weight shifting to one leg , and she raised a haughty eyebrow.

"Get lost, gentlemen," she said, noting the way they turned to stare at her and her companion. "She's with us."

"I suggest you forget you saw us," Seb seconded, his tone authoritative and formal. "And go. We won't say a word."

"Fuck you guys," one said, the man Emma had kicked. "You bitches can't do fucking shit, she's with us now, right, girlie?" he directed the last part of his response to Kitty, throwing a heavy arm around her neck. Her slender, tiny, body buckled from the weight. Her skin was ashy.

"I can't believe it. You guys are actually idiots," Emma said, annoyance dripping from every word that escaped her lips. They were starting to spread, making a circle around her and Seb. "I told you to leave. You had your chance."

"And now you've got yours. Go away, and we won't kill you." The leader's smile was nasty. "Pretty little girl like you, be a shame if anything happened to your face."

"You're right. I'd hate for it to resemble yours."

"Fucking c-" the leader started, though his words were abandoned as he launched himself forward, grabbing her wrist. From her peripheral vision, Emma could see the others jumping on Seb, whaling him with was going down, hunched over, beaten from every possible angle. One of them had taken out a set of chains, whipping him over the back and head.

_I guess I'm on my own,_ she thought wryly. She twisted her wrist out of the leader's grasp, knocked him in the jaw with her elbow. He retaliated by grabbing her hair. She responded with a forceful back kick to him stomach, temporarily winding him. Kitty was staring at them through hazy eyes; she likely wouldn't remember much of the evening, and Emma saw no reason to hold back.

Her eyes flashed brightly as she backed away, watching the man struggle up from the ground, clutching his middle. A flash of metal glinted from his right hand - a gun. Emma closed her eyes, tried to block out the crunching sounds of breaking bones behind her. A short yelp of pain replaced the noise, and she opened her eyes to see the leader out cold in front of her, the pistol having fallen from his grasp.

Victory. Except Seb-

An enormous body flew past her, crashing through the wall of Aléatoire. Through the rubble, she could see the men's washroom. She could also see that whoever was playing the projectile was not Sebastian Shaw. Emma turned, so quickly that her blonde hair seemed to fan out behind her. Her eyes widened in shock that she struggled not to register.

Seb was no longer bent over but instead standing tall, holding the largest of the thugs by the neck, then tossing him aside as though he were a rag doll. There was not a mark on his body, not from the punches, the chains, or even the knife that lay discarded on the ground. His smile was wide, crooked, and almost terrifying in the jaundiced light beamed down upon them. The next man had his arm broken in a split second, with the ease that one might snap a twig. The last of the men seemed to have the brilliant idea of running. Emma focused, and he dropped to his knees with a strangled scream, holding his head at the temples.

"You've got some explaining to do yourself," Emma breathed, aware of the heightened noise coming from the club. Some stoned, high, or drunk individual had noticed the hole, and was urinating out of it. It would only be a matter of time before their knew window, and the man who had been used to create it, would come to the attention of security.

"Later. Can your friend get out?" He was examining the street at Kitty's ankles.

"I don't know. She's pretty well stuck."

More voices were coming from inside, sounding as thought their owners were approaching with great excitement. The man still in the bathroom shot them a disinterested glance before checking his appearance in one of the few shards of mirror still hanging on the marble wall, and picking something out of his teeth.

Seb growled in frustration. He stomped on the ground, as a small fissure opened around Kitty. She nearly fell forward, but Seb picked her up and flung her over his shoulder. He looked grim, but at the same time, strangely excited.

"Follow me," he ordered. "I know a place not too far from here that we can stay for a few hours. She can get her bearings and we can talk about what the hell just happened."

Emma rolled her eyes and fished the shoes she'd lent Kitty out of the small crater. No point in letting a good set of heels go to waste.

* * *

They hadn't walked terribly long or far when they arrived outside of a glorious building twenty minutes later. It looked vaguely Victorian from the outside, a strange sight compared to the more modern buildings surrounding it, though its design suggested that it had been renovated with the twenty-first century in mind. She could still hear music coming from inside, despite the increasingly late hour. Emma looked at the sign and turned to Seb with an unimpressed expression on her face.

"A strip club, Shaw?" she asked. "I'm sorry, am I supposed to dance on stage to blend in?"

"Trust me, they'd love you," he responded distractedly, searching in his pockets. He gripped a set of keys in one hand, holding Kitty still with the other. "Come on. We're going through the side entrance."

"With a skeleton key? Breaking and entering isn't terribly subtle."

"You just wait and see."

They ducked to the side of the building. An enormous door loomed in front of them, and Seb turned the key in the lock. It clicked and the door swung inwards, closing behind them with a loud bang. They stood in a lit hallway, decorated with undoubtedly expensive marble busts. Sebastian led the way down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. They were above the club, Emma guessed, though the upper level was probably soundproofed. They ended their journey in a den-like room, lined with bookshelves and full of armchairs and small couches. He set Kitty down on one of them, rather gently for a man of his size. She was out cold.

"Welcome to the Hellfire Club," Sebastian started, leaning against a bookshelf.

"Do the strippers count their tips up here?"

"This is no time for jokes, Emma. I want to know what you did back there."

Her mouth was set in a fine line.

"I have my suspicions," he continued. "I'd just like to hear it from you."

She said nothing for a minute. Then: "I'm about as normal as you are. Kinetic absorption and synthesis? Wonderful of you to tell me before I worried about you getting stabbed."

"Aha!" His smile grew wider. "I knew it. You're a telepath, aren't you? How else would you have used the exact terms I was thinking of? Good job with the psionic blasts."

Letting him know the truth, albeit indirectly, felt very freeing.

"What can I say?" she shrugged. "I'm brilliant, and I'm good at it, Shaw."

"You could do well in here, you know. I'm not kidding. The Hellfire Club's inner circle has always been very accepting."

"What's this little after-school group about, anyway?"

Even his chuckles were sexy. "This isn't little, Emma." He drew closer, whispered in her ear. "We think big. This group is only for the best, the brightest, the most privileged. The ones who should be in charge."

"Keep talking," she whispered back, nibbling on his ear.

"You seem the ambitious sort of person who'd do really well in here. You'd be an asset to the Club. Just think, a world where decisions were made by the few, the worthy. The power you could wield..."

Just the thought was mesmerizing. Emma had a thing for control, and enough healthy contempt for the government to know that she could do a better job than some of the politicians in Boston. And with a mutant in charge, the possibilities were endless... God, Shaw was pushing every one of her buttons, and it took all her willpower to take a mental step back.

"Not yet."

"What?"

"I'm not saying no. I've got something to do, something important, and I cant join until I've finished it. You understand, don't you?"

"So I'll defer my invitation," Seb replied, placing his hands on her waist. "But I could get used to having you around here." He kissed her, and Emma returned the action with equal passion.

"Right here?" she teased as their lips parted. "With Kitty ten feet away?"

He laughed, and she could feel the vibrations through his body. "How about I give you a very _intimate_ tour of the boardroom, instead? It's just down the hall. Soundproofed."

She loosed the top two buttons of his dress shirt with a mischievous smile, before he picked her up and carried her to the door, her arms around his neck. "Tell me, Seb, does your power work with any kind of contact?"

"Well," he replied, throwing her down on the round boardroom table, and tugging off his shirt. "You'll just need to try and see."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Apologies again for the late chapter. The holidays have been fun, but very time consuming! I'd like to announce the winner of my contest as Meneldur, whose short story, though unpublished, was wonderful! As always, reviews are welcome, and I'm making an effort to respond to each one. Thank you, and happy New Year!


	6. Chapter Six : Doubts

**Chapter Six : Doubts**

Kitty woke up at nine in the morning to sunlight streaming through the windows and immediately wished she hadn't. Everything, every inch of her body, internal and external, ached in ways that even Logan's training hadn't coaxed out. Her stomach was cramping and her mouth was parched. Her eyes and lips felt equally dry, and she ran her tongue over her teeth to try and chase away the scuzzy feeling that coated them. Her muscles ached, and her ankles felt particularly sore. She didn't want to move. She needed sleep.

Except... when had they gotten back to the Plaza? She couldn't remember much of the previous night, nothing definitive after her third shot, which Emma had insisted on pouring her. There were a few flashes - she could remember strobe lights, something about cologne, and a few shadowy figures getting knocked around - but little else. She vaguely recalled feelings of desperation and being thrown over someone's shoulders, but not whose, and bookshelves. What the hell had happened?

"Good morning, Kit,," Emma said languidly, walking into the room and stretching her arms over her head. "Feeling better?"

_Not really_, she wanted to say. But she didn't want to seem immature, to make Emma feel like the night had been a mistake. She was sure that she'd had fun, she just couldn't remember it happening. Instead, she replied with, "Yeah. I think I just need a little water."

Emma laughed. "Oh, don't worry about hurting my feelings. Trust me, the first few wild nights take some time to get used to." She winked, and handed Kitty some Advil and water.

"What happened?" Kitty asked, gratefully gulping down both the pills and the water. It felt more refreshing than anything she'd ever drank, and she slowly squirmed up to a sitting position.

"Oh, nothing major. Seb and I-"

"Seb?"

"I see she's awake," said a very male voice. A tall, strapping, _totally hot, omigod it wasn't fair that she was wearing her pyjamas,_ guy walked in, , throwing on a dress shirt and buttoning it up. Kitty couldn't stop the blush from spreading over her face as se pulled the thick duvet up to her chin.

"Um, hi?" she squeaked. "Are you... Seb?"

"The one and only. Emma and I here, we had to help you out after a little altercation last night."

"What? No way."

"Some guys just get way too grabby," Emma intoned, twirling a piece of hair around her finger. "So Seb and I decided to scare him off."

"Oh." That would explain her residual feelings of anxiety, but not the rest of it. Maybe she'd hallucinated the strange room. "Is that why..." she trailed off, too embarrassed to finish her thought. Seb had clearly spent the night.

"I'm here just in case that loser decided to follow you girls back. I think we've all heard horror stories about guys who won't take no for an answer."

Kitty accepted the story, if only because she couldn't recall enough information that could possibly contradict it. Maybe that was why her body hurt so much. She doubted, however, that their safety was the only reason Seb had offered to see them back to the hotel - the grins that he and Emma exchanged seemed to suggest that something else had happened, which only served to make her feel even _more_ uncomfortable than earlier. Had they hooked up while she was still awake? It wasn't like she could remember, anyway - but that would just be _so_ incredibly awkward

"I think I'm going to take a shower before we head down to breakfast," Emma said, stretching long arms over her head. "You should, too. You'll feel so much better."

Kitty nodded in agreement. The hot water would be a much-welcomed addition to her morning. It would help defog her brain, soothe those muscles, and help her get rid of the overwhelming grogginess that made her still feel so tired.

Emma left the room with Seb two steps behind her. His rear view was as nice as the front, and Kitty watched him walk away with a giggle. When the coast was clear and the door to her room closed behind him, she attempted getting out of bed for the first time. Swinging her legs to the side was excruciating. Her hips were tight. She took a deep breath, flung off the covers, and touched her sore feet to the floor. As she stood, the pain shooting through her legs was incredible. She looked down.

She'd worn normal pumps last night. She could remember her outfit, if nothing else.

So why were there bloody scratches running around her ankles?

* * *

She could barely muster the energy to get dressed after twenty minutes under gloriously hot water and surprisingly fantastic hotel toiletries. She pulled on the thick terry robe and belted it around her waist before hazarding a glance in the foggy mirror. Kitty looked better after the shower, but only marginally. She still had bags under her eyes, and her lips and eyelids were still swollen from the water retention that alcoholic dehydration had brought on. Still, she felt less grimy, and her muscles less tense than earlier. She figured that her body would start to recover relatively quickly. If she could survive Logan's training, she could survive anything.

Opening the door separating her room from the bathroom, Kitty was blasted with cool air. She hadn't realized exactly how hot the water had been. She'd been too busy trying to piece together the previous night from what little flashes went through her mind. Maybe she could ask Jean to fish around, see what she could come up with, but decided against it. Jean would definitely disapprove of the club idea - and if Logan or the Professor found out? She'd be grounded for life. No, she'd do this on her own.

Today wasn't going to be a day for fashion, she decided looking at her still-full shopping bags from yesterday afternoon. Instead, she fished around in her suitcase and pulled out a pair of jeans, flats, a white tee shirt, and her favourite pink cardigan. Her wet hair got pulled back into a bun fastened with a matching pink elastic, and she threw on the Star of David necklace that Jean had given her last Christmas. She looked in the full-length mirror. Passable. A pair of sunglasses, and she could walk around without anybody noticing she was hungover.

She cut through the sitting room of their suite only to be arrested by the sight of Seb and Emma emerging from Emma's room. They'd both clearly showered. Together. _Awkward_, she thought, standing by the coffee table in mortification. She had no clue what the etiquette was for this kind of thing.

Emma seemed to pick up on it quickly -was the look on her face really that obvious?- and flashed her a reassuring look. "Shall we head to breakfast, then?" she asked brightly. Her blonde hair was piled into a wet, but stylish, bun, and she had managed to dress with some effort. Seb was still shaking the water out of his slightly shaggy hair, and had tried to repurpose the previous night's outfit. They looked like something out of a Calvin Klein ad.

Life wasn't fair.

* * *

"I was thinking we'd visit some friends of mine in the Upper East Side," Emma said over fluffy scrambled egg whites. "Then swing over to the Met, do a little more shopping - there are some to-_die_ for boutiques, and we should really go to Tiffany's, for the full experience -"

The sight of her buttered toast was doing nothing to settle Kitty's stomach. It sank deeper and deeper into her chair as Emma listed their itinerary for the day. At least the orange juice was helping. Dr. McCoy's lectures on replacing electrolytes in the body had been good for something.

"Um," Kitty started, trying to focus, "I kinda..." _Oh no, not her stomach, not now-_ "I kinda... want to stay back," she blurted out, heaving for breath. Her fingers were tight around her fork, and she saw the maitre d' shot her a disapproving glare from across the dining room.

Emma looked disappointed, and that made Kitty feel worse than ever. She gave her a baleful look, and all Kitty could do was think over and over again about how sorry she was, how stupid she was for punking out, how she shouldn't have drank so much. She would have vocalized her thoughts, but she didn't trust herself not to throw up.

A touch on the arm. Kitty jolted her head up, mortified to realize that she had nearly fallen asleep in her dish. Emma withdrew her delicate fingers from her forearm and smiled with surprising understanding.

"It's okay, Kitty," she said, leaning forward. "I'm sorry about last night. I was just trying to show you a good time. If you want to stay back today, we'll lie low, maybe head home early if you don't want to stay the night."

Kitty nodded weakly, but with gratitude. "I'd like that, I think. I mean, I've had, like, so much fun with you, it's just that, like, I guess I'm not used to partying that late, and, like-"

She was interrupted by Seb's arrival at the table, holding a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne in one hand. His hair was dry now, and he looked even more devilish in the daylight streaming through the windows. Kitty picked up her glass of juice and took a swig. _Don't barf don't barf, don't barf..._

"I return, ladies, bearing gifts," he announced, expertly uncorking the bottle. "I think we should all have a toast in order to celebrate Miss Katherine Pryde's first night out on the town." He poured some into her orange juice and grinned charmingly before preparing a glass for Emma and himself. He raised his, winked, and the three clinked their glasses together in a toast. Kitty tried not to meet his eye and made to set her glass back down on the table.

"Oh come on now, Kitty," he admonished, as Emma looked on in amusement. "You can't refuse a toast in your name!"

She raised her glass to her lips, feeling the sweet, fizzy, thick liquid jar against her tongue.

And then felt it spill onto the floor as the rest of her breakfast followed suit.

* * *

"I think we should check on her," Seb suggested, running a hand through his hair to keep it out of his eyes.

"Right now?" Emma pouted. She rolled onto his chest. "But I thought we were just getting started."

"We were just getting started an hour ago."

"She said she wanted to stay back here. I need something to entertain me- and you're _very _entertaining." She ran her nails down his neck. "I can't spend all day babysitting."

"She could always join us," Seb suggested, with a short, deep, laugh. "Or watch."

"Tempting though the idea is, I don't think she'd be up to it."

"Can't you plant the idea in her head?"

"Misusing my powers already, are we, Sebastian?"

"I would hardly call that misuse. More like an act of charity. Or a gift, a thank you, for saving you both last night."

"As I recall, I was getting dirt under my nails, while you wasted your time getting your ass kicked."

"Must you be so deprecating?"

"Always." She kissed his lips, then moved to nibble the junction between his neck and shoulder. "But at least it got you charged up for later."

"Keep biting my neck," he flirted back, "And I'll be charged up for now."

* * *

The noise was the worst of it, Kitty decided, gripping the edge of the cold porcelain. She could deal with them having sex if they weren't so vocal. And if they stopped moving the furniture. And making the walls shake.

It wasn't that she was a prude -she wiped her mouth with a thick terry towel, then sat with her back to the bathtub - Kitty never thought that she'd actually be married a virgin. It was unrealistic, considering the rising average age of marriage, her desire to get a college education, and yes, being an X-Men. Those mitigating factors meant that she probably wouldn't put a ring on it until she was in her late twenties - or even later.

For a highschooler with a sex drive, that was way too long to wait for. It wasn't that she hadn't had the chance before. She and Lance hadn't been totally innocent when their relationship was in the "on" stage-hands had wandered before - but she'd never felt totally ready to move on. And she regretted it now, hearing Emma and Seb go at it with the intent to break noise laws.

Why _hadn't_ she ever tried it before? Lance had never really brought it up openly -maybe he was _too_ much of a gentleman? The thought made her laugh. But she hadn't brought it up either, and the fact was, being a virgin made her feel awkward, way younger than she actually was, and it was weird. Like, she knew that she was older than some of the other mutants back home, had more experience when it came to training, but she also knew that Roberto had a _ton_ of girlfriends back home, so she felt even younger than he was. She couldn't be the only one in the Institute. Rogue... well, Rogue was a special case, so she didn't count. Jean and Scott - okay, she doubted that they'd done anything. Scott was cute, but he seemed like he'd be waaaay too nervous. Kurt... She wondered about Kurt and Amanda for a minute. Had they? Weird to think of it. Maybe he hadn't, because of his mutation.

Great. SO. She was the only totally able-bodied, relatively normal, sex-driven teenager of the old recruits who could feasibly have sex, and she wasn't. Now she felt like she had a _responsibility_ to do it.

Another moan through the wall, the sound of squeaking bed frames, and another wave of acid rushing up her throat. Kitty leaned her head over the toilet as quickly as she could and squeezed her eyes shut as her body wracked.

Okay. Definitely not today.

* * *

Emma raised her head out from under the sheets with a wicked grin that quickly turned wistful. "So I guess this is going to be it, then?" she said quietly. "Until I get back in the city again."

"Are you always this negative?"

"I'm being realistic. The sex is great, but you're going back to college."

"In the city. This city. Where are you going?"

She ignored the question.

"You could visit the Institute. I'm sure we'd be the first to make the Professor create an overnight-visitors policy."

"I'll have to take you up on that, Emma." Seb ran his hand over her back, rested it on her shoulder. "You're explosive. And you should consider my offer from last night."

"Not now," she insisted. "Not yet. I have something to do first. It might take a while; hopefully not. But rest assured, I'll be joining. Eventually."

"When are you going to tell me what this top-secret mission is?"

"When you tease it out of me," she shot back as he flipped her onto her back. "Starting... now."

* * *

"We got a red-light, pornographic dance fight, systematic, honey-" Emma flipped between stations on the radio as she expertly handled her Maserati. "-three bodies found in the posh Boston mansion at one this morning- sunny skies for the next three days, with the humidex in the-" There didn't seem to be anything on that Emma could agree with, and so the radio was replaced with a CD of instrumental tracks from an orchestra that she had seen live. Thrice.

"So..." Kitty started slowly, clutching the paper bag in her hands, "Are you and Seb... dating now?" She stared out the window, watching the horizon as they drove down the interstate, noting how the trees seemed to blur into indistinct shapes. It was four in the afternoon; they had left a little earlier, after a late lunch in some French restaurant whose name Kitty wasn't able to pronounce. Apparently Sebastian knew the chef personally, and their meal had been fantastic. It would have been even better if Kitty's stomach hadn't forbidden her from eating anything with garlic butter.

Emma glanced over, looked at her through oversized Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses before bringing her gaze back to the smoothly paved road ahead of them. The asphalt looked like it was shimmering in the heat. "God no, " she laughed airily. "Wouldn't work with the distance. Besides, he's an ass. Incredibly full of himself. Gorgeous, great for a good time, but I wouldn't call him long term, not now. Besides, I'm eighteen. There are far too many men out there to sample for me to be tied down."

Kitty was silent for a minute. "How old-?" She couldn't finish her sentence, feeling so embarrassed that she even advanced the topic. Were they even close enough to discuss this? She hadn't even known Emma for that long, and _omigod, what if she, like, got mad-_

"Sixteen," Emma replied. Her lips curled up in a smile. "Pity it wasn't sooner. It's fantastic."

Sixteen. A bit younger than she was. And Emma had wanted to start even earlier. Kitty again felt woefully young.

"Got any other questions I can answer?" Emma asked. "I've had a lot of experience, so I'm probably helpful."

"Who was he? I mean, your first, like, um, partner?" Her cheeks flamed.

"Doesn't matter, really. He was older, much more experienced, and incredibly well-off. He knew what he was doing."

"How much older?"

Emma tapped the steering wheel for a moment. "Huh. I think he was in his first couple of years of college? Maybe twenty. Son of one of my dad's business partners."

"Twenty? But isn't that illegal?"

"Only if someone finds out. Trust me, it was entirely consensual. Next question."

"Did it hurt?"

"Not if you warm up first."

And so the conversation continued, through a gas stop, two coffee breaks, and multiple radio and CD changes over the course of the hour it took them to get back to Bayville. It grew more comfortable by the second, and soon Kitty grew bolder with each question she asked, and each answer she received, Suddenly, she didn't seem quite so hopeless after all.

Hell, if Emma's advice had any legs, it means that all balls -the pun was entirely unintentional- were in her court.

* * *

They returned to the mansion by five thirty, having been delayed by traffic once they hit the city. Kitty was glad to be back, and yearned to pass out face first on her bed, but knew that she had to face the other students first. The first was Rogue, walking through the hallway as she struggled to drag in her suitcases and purchases.

"You're back early," Rogue remarked, adding dryly, "You look like shit. What's the matter? Five-hundred thread count sheets too harsh on yer skin?" Her sarcasm, though usually well-received, wasn't needed.

"Nah," Kitty replied, "Tired. Did a lot of stuff." She tried to hedge the other girl's pointed look.

"With the amount of shopping we got done," Emma said breezily, dropping an enormous leather luggage on the floor," we had to leave today. Or else it wouldn't have fit into my car." As if to prove her point, she dangled her Hermes bag from two fingers.

"Too bad. I hope you don't expect any help bringing those in," Rogue said pointedly, looking at Kitty with a tiny smile. "Logan's worked us hard since you've been gone. He's in a worse mood than normal. I'd lie low at dinner" With that, she turned and walked up the stairs stiffly, as if the muscles of her legs were unable to bend.

"Why does that not surprise me?" Emma remarked with a sly grin.

* * *

"I suppose your trip went well?" the Professor asked over his salad and roast. Emma stared him straight in the eye as she answered.

"It wasn't bad. But New York in the dog days of summer isn't the most exciting place to be. Muggy, air thick with pollution, and people are far too hot to do anything of interest, Including showering." Her answer seemed to placate the Professor, who returned to his conversation with Storm about the sorry state of the roses out front.

"You okay, Half-Pint?" Logan growled, looking at Kitty with barely-veiled suspicion. "Your looking a little... green."

Emma shot Kitty a glance, but true to form, the younger teen didn't betray. "Just carsick," she said with false cheeriness. "You know, the heat, the car, the smell of gas. It just, like, adds up."

"Funny. You do just fine in the X-Jet."

"Maybe it was, like, lunch, too. You know, had a lot. Maybe something was weird with it."

"Huh." Logan turned his gaze to Emma, who returned it with cold indifference. "You don't seem sick. How was your lunch?"

"I ate light," she replied, "I've got to keep my girlish figure. Be a shame if I let myself go, don't you agree?" She winked at him and tilted her head coquettishly.

Logan snarled in clear agitation.

* * *

"Now, try and focus on the recesses of my mind, Jean," came the Professors muffled voice from the other side of the heavy door. Emma's ear was pressed against the wood as she strained to hear what he was saying. Some days were better than others when it came to distinguishing his words; this evening was one of those. She took mental notes as he continued speaking, tucking away his advice into her brain.

"Is there any particular reason I've seen you hovering outside the Professor's door every night since you got here?" came a friendly, though wry, voice. The Beast. She hadn't even noticed him coming up the hallway, and her heart jumped in her chest. She whirled around, her long hair streaming behind her as she flashing him a winning smile, the kind that melted hearts everywhere.

"Just trying to screw up some courage," she said, blinking innocently. "I just have some concerns about the training I've had, and I want to bring them up with him. I don't want to make any waves, you see, so it's been difficult for me to say anything."

"You've been doing just fine with it, from what I can see. And you don't strike me as the type to lack courage." He scratched the back of his head with an enormous hand. "Quite the opposite."

"Appearances are very deceiving, Doctor McCoy."

He sighed as they walked down the hall. "If you have any issues with our methods, you could try talking to Logan directly. Or even me, if you find him too intimidating. I realize that he comes off a little..."

"Primitive?"

"Good word, but I was going to say "rough". He's not entirely unreasonable. What's bothering you?"

_Shit._ She grappled for an idea.

"The uniform," Emma blurted out, sounding relatively collected considering the spur of the moment idea. "I don't think the uniform suits me, and I should be able to wear one of my choosing."

"You're a new recruit, Emma. Regardless of age, you have to wear the default uniform."

"It's not terribly flattering."

"It's a spandex blend. Don't you think that's tight enough?"

"Why, Doctor McCoy, have you been looking?" she asked, widening her eyes and projecting the most innocent airs se could manage. The Beast guffawed, and Emma got an all-too-clear view of surprisingly sharp teeth.

"I can't say that I have, especially since you haven't actually been in uniform since the day you got here." He clamped his hand on her shoulder in a friendly gesture. From anyone else, the comment would have been bitchy. From Doctor McCoy, it was delightfully sarcastic. He was a nice man, she decided, despite his physical image. She could detect no menace from him, and he relaxed her. A smart man, but not condescending.

"How are you doing with the other students?"

His question caught her off guard.

"Not bad. I think we all get along quite well, all things considered."

"Hmm. I seem to notice some tension between you and Jean. Is everything all right?" He fixed her with yellow eyes.

"Perfectly so. We may not see eye to eye, but I assure you, I have the maturity to deal with the situation."

"Still want to talk to the Professor about switching things up?" he asked after a sigh.

"No, I think I'll wait a day. Give it more thought."

Crisis averted.

* * *

Nine-thirty, the kitchen. It was blissfully empty, which meant that Scott could have his snack in silence. He needed to escape the overhanging stress of the group for a while. Ever since Kitty had gotten home -and crashed out on her bed immediately after dinner- Jean had been distracted, sad, and depressive. It was self-doubt, he figured. He had known her long enough to recognize the tiny signs of his girlfriend's normally high self-confidence cracking. The silence, the awkward pauses, the thoughts that trailed off, even the tinny bursts of irritation. He'd tried to calm her, and maybe it had an effect - certainly she was able to go to her nightly practise session with the Professor, which was always a good sign.

"Evening, Scott," came a voice from the doorway. He looked up from his protein and ice-cream milkshake -he had to keep the muscle on _somehow_- to find Emma leaning against the frame in what he assumed was a pyjama set. He assumed, because he couldn't see why anybody would walk around the mansion in what accounted to little more than lingerie. He was thankful that his sunglasses obscured his eyes, because he found it hard to focus on her face, despite the respect he had for women.

Whatever she was wearing on the bottom -he didn't know what the technical term for them was- was like a pair of tiny ruffled shorts. Her top was little more than a bra, lacy, and coming down just enough to cover her ribcage. In the name of modesty, she topped it all off with a sheer thigh-length robe, unbelted. Was she insane?

"Sorry, did I catch you by surprise?" she asked with a smirk before making her way to the table and sitting next to him. He stared wilfully at the top of her head.

"Yeah. Heading to bed?" He sipped his drink.

"No, not for a while. I'm full of energy right now, so unless something wears me out, I won't be sleeping for a while." He tried to ignore the obviously accidental innuendo in her words.

"Maybe you should talk to Logan. His training'll make you drop dead."

"Mmm, not the kind of wearing out I need, but it's better than nothing."

Silence, save for the slurping of his milkshake. Jean had tried his once and hated it. The protein powder made it even thicker than usual, and he had to forgo straws if he hoped to be able to drink it.

"So, ever wonder what Jean and the Professor get up to in their training sessions?" Emma asked bluntly, twirling a chunk of long blonde hair around her fingers. Her cold blue eyes were narrowed.

"They're working with her telepathy. There aren't any others here, so it makes sense for her to work with him. He's a master."

"But for hours, late into the night? Seems a bit strange."

"Not really. They both have other responsibilities. Sometimes they fit them into the afternoons or mornings, but it depends when they have the time."

"And totally alone? Nobody bothers them? Something else could be happening."

Scott had a vague idea of what she was insinuating, and he didn't like it.

"Tell me, have you guys fucked yet?"

From any other girl, the word would have sounded caustic and vulgar. Scott found it incredibly weird when women swore. But Emma had a languid way of rolling it off her tongue that made it sound easy, sophisticated, even. Still, her question made him flush.

"No-wait-but-"

"I wonder why, since you guys have been dating so long," she persisted, and Scott felt all the blood in his body rush to his cheeks.

"It's not really any of your concern," he choked out, regaining some of his composure. Emma still looked at him with that smirk, that knowing glint in her eyes, one leg crossed high over the other as she leaned in towards him.

"I'd be a little concerned if I were you, Scott. Girls love men with a little power. I know this all sounds a little suspect, and you probably don't like hearing it, but I'm only looking out for your best interests. Tell me, did she date other boys before you?"

He nodded. "Yeah, one or two. She was with Duncan Matthews for a while." He had forgotten that she wouldn't know who that was and added, "A quarterback" to clarify his answer.

"Hmm. And they broke up?"

"Yeah, right before she started dating me."

"Can I ask why?"

"He was a prick. Then the whole mutant-thing went down, and he wanted to use her and freaked out when she wouldn't."

"So, if the "mutant-thing" hadn't happened, she'd still be dating him."

"No, because he was a jerk. Still is." His thoughts went to the rash of anti-mutant crimes that had taken Bayville by storm.

"But he was obviously a jerk when they were dating, and she was ready to stand by him then," Emma persisted, grazing his forearm with her fingers. "It wasn't a problem before you were forced to go public."

"What's with the pyjama party?" Rogue asked, thankfully walking into the room and interrupting their awkward conversation. Scott had never been more grateful to see her stomp into the room, in full gothic regalia, and fling open the fridge. "Mind if I watch the news?" she asked, after preparing a bowl of cereal. Sugar-laden. Scott didn't understand how she could stand to eat the stuff every night.

She flipped on the screen and Scott stared at it intently, still able to feel Emma's gaze boring into the side of his head.

"Three bodies found at the Frost estate in Boston. Winston Frost, wife Hazel, and son-in-law Steven were declared dead at the grisly scene, apparent victims of a botched burglary. Daughter Adrienne, current CEO of Frost Enterprises, was not home at the time, and returned to find the family home broken into and-"

Scott realized that Emma's breathing had slowed down significantly. He turned his head and saw her staring intently at the television screen, he full lips pressed firmly together. Rogue seemed to be doing at the same thing, and Scott met her eyes as they both looked at their new teammate, whose back seemed to have gone stiff.

"Were they... family?" he started, awkwardly.

"Not at all," Emma snapped back. "A terrible crime, I'm sure, but not one that affects me personally."

"You seem kinda upset," Rogue offered, putting her hand on the other girl's shoulder. Emma flinched away in return. Scott had never seem fury so cold.

"Are you sure you're not -" he hesitated to ask. He wondered if she was going to be okay.

"Look, Scott, Rogue, I appreciate your concern, misguided though it may be." She seemed to be returning to normal, and rose from her chair, bending forward slightly so that Scott couldn't help but get an eyeful of her chest. "But I assure you guys, I'm fine. Nothing to worry about here." She flashed them both a smile, and readied to leave the kitchen when the commotion occurred.

A crash.

The tinkle of glass on the floor.

The crunch of what was left in the pane giving way as somebody flung themselves through it.

And a crowed, "Honey, I'm home!" as a man unfurled from a crouch, standing in the kitchen with two massive swords in his hands. He grinned widely from beneath a mask.

"Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do!"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Happy new year, all! This chapter was delayed, but I've hopefully hmade up for it in length. Grad applications are a life-consuming process. As always, reviews and criticusm are always, always, welcomed! Congrats to Meneldur, who won the Snow Day contest in December, whose prize will be up later this weekend!.


	7. Chapter Seven : Flip

**Chapter Seven : Flip**

If there was one thing that Logan's ungodly early training sessions had done over the years, it was instilling an incredible muscle memory into one Scott Summers. In the split second that it took him to register the stranger's presence in the room, he had already shot off an ocular beam and vaulted behind the marble island of the kitchen. Rogue wasn't far; she rested her back against the cool surface, looking antsy. Emma joined them, the lightweight fabric of her nightie fluttering as she drew herself into a crouch. It was incredibly distracting.

"So, which one of us is Lucy?" Rogue asked as Scott popped his head up in order to shoot off another blast.

A blast that was easily deflected by the intruder's swords. The Institute's alarm was sounding; he just had to hold the guy off for a minute, until reinforcements arrived. But the guy was capable to dodging and refracting laser blasts - it wasn't going to be easy.

"Like I know?" he asked back, his voice tainted by his frustration. "I haven't made any new enemies lately, you?"

"When was the last time I left the house, Ricky?" Rogue countered.

"You can leave it in pieces if you want," came an eerily cheerful voice from above. Scott glanced up. The intruder, clad largely in red, was crouched on top of the island, now bending his head over the edge so it hung right in front of Scott's. Scott pulled down his glasses and shot the stranger in the face. The force sent him sprawling into the refrigerator, and Scott jumped to his feet, dimly aware of a rush of footsteps coming towards the kitchen.

"Nice shot," Rogue said, breathing heavily.

"Not nice enough," Emma cut in, icy blue eyes focused ion the heap of a body now crumpled on the kitchen floor. It was moving. Not moving, rising. And laughing?

"Not bad, kiddo," he said, springing up jauntily and cracking his head back into place. The sight made Scott's stomach churn. It had been twisted almost entirely around. "At least try and put up a fight."

He advanced, swords crossed in front of him. Scott attempted another hit, but again, it was refracted into a wall.

"Emma," he called, voice authoritative. "Get rid of the swords!" He could see her hands moving her temples in his peripheral vision, and he hoped that she could do something, and fast. Rogue was moving, but it wasn't towards him. Scott tried to evaluate the situation; he was reasonably sure that he could take the man in hand-to-hand combat, but the swords were another story altogether. With those out of the way, he might stand a chance.

But he needed Emma to do something first. Anything.

* * *

She hadn't expected to be called out. She hadn't expected to be involved in some ridiculous battle. But she was pretty sure she knew who "Lucy" was, and the thought alone had set her off her game ever-so-slightly.

Quite plainly, she wasn't prepared for this. She'd skipped her Adderall dosing; after a weekend free from the drug, her heart had felt normal again. She hadn't bothered to retake it when she got back to the Institute. She could try and force something - but what could that do? Scott expected telekinesis where there was none.

Adaptation.

Distraction.

Penetration.

She didn't allow her eyes to close as she raised her fingers to her head and focused her mind on the intruder. She could pick up the thoughts of a school in crisis, of a crowd of students and teachers hurrying to the kitchen. They were close, but they weren't there yet.

She attempted to strike his brain, to paralyze his mind and subsequently his body, to send him reeling into the pain of a psy-bolt.

But there was nothing tangible in his mind. If her eyes hadn't been open, they certainly would have done so. His brain was a morass, a seething pit of everything and nothing, of pop culture references and burritos, and single-minded violence. It was loud, it was dark, and the flashes of bright, whiplash thoughts that fought her own confused her, forced her mind out. There was no room for her intrusion, no tiny niche from which she could work.

And he was getting closer with every step.

* * *

Rogue heart thudded against her ribs, but she forced herself to remain logical despite the surreality of the situation unfolding before her eyes. Scott was being attacked by a man, clad in a full-body costume holding two swords, who had swung in through the now-broken kitchen window spouting outdated _I Love Lucy_ references. Emma Frost was currently frozen in place beside her in what looked like bridal lingerie. And nobody seemed able to stop him.

She couldn't sap Scott, not when he was in the middle of battle. She debated touching Emma, to try and working with some of the telekinesis that seemed to be failing their newest member, bit regardless of the effectiveness of the blonde's powers, it would still leave them a person short.

Scott and the attacker seemed suitably preoccupied with each other, and Rogue seized the opportunity to jump to her feet and grab a heavy copper saucepan from the dish rack. She swung it hard, like a baseball bat, hoping velocity was on her side. She was never one for physics.

It crashed into the side of the intruder's head with a sickening crunch, producing a sizeable dent where the skull had collapsed inwards. He turned his head, one sword still held up to Scott's throat, in order to look Rogue in the face.

He was laughing. Uproarious, loud, untamed laughter, like he had just been tickled.

"Not bad, Kid," he said. "But too bad for you, I'm not going down just yet. I'm needed in the next couple of chapters."

"What?" Emma asked archly.

"What does that even mean?" Scott said in total confusion.

"Who the hell are you?" Rogue demanded, looking on in horror as the dent in his cranium seemed to pop back to normal.

"Deadpool," snarled an all-too familiar voice from the door of the kitchen.

_Snkt._

Wolverine.

* * *

"Wolvie, baby, how ya doing?" Deadpool asked cheerfully, leaning on one of his swords. He twirled the other one in his fingers like a baton. "Long time, no see! How're the wife and kids?"

"You know this guy, Wolverine?" Bobby asked incredulously.

"You're married?" was Sam's question.

Logan shook his head as he dropped into a crouch, claws fully unsheathed. "Unfortunately, we've crossed paths before."

"But not in this series," Deadpool added, moving the tip of his sword to point directly as Scott's throat. "Generally we stay within the comic realm. But it depends on what canon you're following, I guess."

"Vhat's he talking about?" Kurt whispered. "I don't get it."

"Ignore him, Nightcrawler," Wolverine ordered. "He's nuts."

"Admittedly so."

"He also won't shut the hell up, so don't encourage him."

"Oh no, keep encouraging me. It's good for my self-esteem." Deadpool nodded his head vigorously.

Wolverine could feel the vein in his temple throbbing as he barely suppressed a snarl. How Deadpool had managed to work his way through the Institute security system was beyond him - he'd gone through it personally, several times, and had been confident that it would keep out any other intruders. Evidently, someone had gotten a little trickier, a little faster, a little better, since the last time they'd met. He'd had significant trouble getting rid of him last time - no way the kids stood a fucking chance against a hitman.

"You're looking a little frustrated. I can see your vein from here. Does the regenerative ability work on aneurisms? I've never had the time to try it."

"You won't get the chance to know," he raged, launching himself forward. Summers had the good sense to get the hell out of the way as Deadpool jumped up with equal speed. The two men collided in midair, grappling at each other. Wolverine could feel hands reaching around his neck, and retaliated by sliding his claws into the other man's lower abdomen and sliding them upward, grimacing at the smell of blood as the flesh yielded to adamantium. They struck rib, and he drew them back before his feet hit the floor. The entire process had taken no more than a few precious seconds. It wasn't long enough.

Deadpool landed on his feet, tucking in his entrails as his skin started to stitch itself back together. Somewhere behind him, Wolverine could hear one of the students - Jamie?- trying not to gag at the sight.

"This itches, broski. Not appreciated at all." Deadpool reached for the swords in his back holster and held them before him, crossed like an X. A traditionally defensive formation, but one that Wolverine knew could be used offensively by someone with enough skill, which Deadpool unfortunately had in spades.

"Maybe I can cool it off?" called out Iceman, as a beam of ice flew through the air and froze the assassin's feet to the ground. Beneath the mask, his expression looked pained.

"Really?" he asked, driving the tip of his sword into the ice with enough force that it shattered. "You're a walking freezer, and that's the best pun you can come up with?"

"Leave the kid out of this, Deadpool," Wolverine cut in, shooting Iceman a death glare from his peripheral vision. "He ain't involved in this."

"Neither are you," Deadpool chided him, wagging a finger in his direction. He could see Rogue and Scott sneaking up behind him; he signalled to them with his eyes that they should advance no further - it would be suicide. Scott had the sense to hesitate. The set of Rogue's chin seemed a sure indication that she wasn't going to listen to him.

"Then what's you're business here?" She was getting closer. _Stall. Stall._

"Just that. Business. Can't tell you much more than that without breaking confidentiality."

"Like you've ever cared, motormouth?"

"I suppose my detachment is an asset, yeah."

Frost was rising to her feet from behind the granite-topped island -_ what the hell was she wearing?_ - and attempting to sidle behind the hitman, behind Rogue, in order to edge around the perimeter of the room. She had gotten as far as Scott when Deadpool seemed to sense that she was there. He whirled around and his voice when he spoke, his voice almost awestruck.

"Please tell me you're actually eighteen," he said.

"Seventeen," she lied. Wolverine inched closer. "Sorry buddy, can't help you. I'm out of your league anyway." Her body weight shifted as she assumed a slightly defensive stance. Wolverine doubted that she would be able to keep standing if push came to shove - her heels were too damn high to be believed. He was so close, just another foot, and he'd be within arm's reach.

"Too bad. I've killed hotter." He moved so quickly that Wolverine's reaction was just a hair's too slow. Swords flashed in the light. A beam of ice shot from behind.

"Iceman, NO-" Wolverine roared, feeling the ice graze his foot. It slowed him down further. He couldn't afford the drop in speed.

A leather glove flew by him as Deadpool thrust his sword forward, and the assassin's body spasmed as he lunged. He fell off balance and twitched on the ground as though electric pulses were working their way methodically through his body.

Rogue.

The goth girl stood in front of Frost, one bare hand still extended before her as her knees started to shake. She had managed to touch the flesh exposed by the tears in Deadpool's suit. There was a tear in her shirt where the sword had just grazed over her collarbone, and Wolverine could smell the metallic blood as it seeped through. He couldn't see the bleed, but he knew it was there.

There wasn't much time before Deadpool recovered. How much there would be, he didn't know, but with the advanced healing factor, every second mattered.

"Get outta here," he ordered the students, turning to face them. "Go. Danger Room's the safest."

"There's way more of us'n him - we can stop him," Sam argued.

"Only one way to stop 'im, and you ain't gonna like it," he growled. "Get moving before he does." The urgency of his voice seemed to do it; they turned, headed down the hallway, hopefully to the Danger Room like he'd told them.

Deadpool was down for the count, at least temporarily. Now to move him somewhere safer, more restrained than the kitchen.

"Wolverine, do you know what's going on?" Scott asked, nudging the body with his foot. Frost stood beside him, one hand on his shoulder.

"No idea," he growled, shooting a look at Emma. "But I can guess."

"I don't like what you're insinuating, Logan," she replied coolly, crossing her arms across her chest and jutting out a hip. "I'm as clueless about this as you are."

"It must just be a coincidence that he shows up right after you do-" he started, feeling his suspicions rise. Something was off about her. He didn't trust how collected she looked, how she managed to be so stone-faced after what had just happened. "-and he just happens to know right where you are. This is Deadpool, kid, he's a fucking psychopath, but he doesn't make mistakes. So either you tell me what you're tangling with, or I'm going to have Chuck pull it out of your peroxide-brain."

He took a step forward, fully expecting some sort of offensive from Frost. Her jaw was set firmly, her chin tilted upward, and she rested one hand on Scott's arm as though closing them off from the sheer force of his rage.

He didn't expect it to come from behind him.

* * *

Logan caught the singing of the blade as it sliced through the air just moments before it cut through the position where his head once was. He whirled around, jumping backwards over Deadpool's body as Rogue let out a roar of anger. She wielded the sword with a surprising amount of confidence - he was sure she'd never covered that in her arms training. And he was resoundingly sure that the maniacal laughter that left her throat wasn't a good sign.

She lunged.

Faster, faster, faster, she was lighter on her feet than he'd ever seen her move. Her bladework was flawless; in the brief second of confusion, she managed to grab the second sword, and was backing him towards the wall.

At least Frost and Summers had the sense to get the fuck out of the way. They watched in horror from the now-shattered window. He could feel their eyes on him as he tried to measure the situation.

"Hello, Logan," she said, voice syrupy sweet and Southern, thick as taffy and equally cloying. "Wanna play?" She extended the tip of the sword and tapped him forcefully on the nose, leaving a gash that healed instantly.

"Not now, kid," he said, trying to catch her eyes. They stared at him, sharo and cunning and unrecognizing of his authority. The smile that stretched across her pale face was unnerving. "We gotta get you out of here. And I don't wanna hurt you."

"Too bad. I do," she grinned, every tooth in her skull visible. She swung, hard. He ducked faster, moved out of his corner and into the wider expanse of the kitchen. He needed more room to work.

She was Deadpool now - fast,. strong, and utterly insane. He knew that Rogue occasionally picked up personality traits of those that she drained - fuck, he'd dealt with the rage for two weeks after she had come into contact with Sabretooth, but at least she had been in charge of her mental capacity. Now, reason and rhyme didn't seem to have any bearing to her; she was fearless because she wasn't sane. She was fighting him - the single-minded tenacity with which she was striking towards him was far too reminiscent of some of his earlier memories involving the assassin.

"Put the sword down," he ordered her as they circled each other. She was in an expert crouch, matching his every movement. He couldn't get close enough to grab her weapons, and she seemed to be anticipating hi every move. The minute that they continued this pattern seemed the longest, most agonizing, minute of Logan's exceptionally long life. He was surprised, given Rogue's current personality, that she was able to stand it as long as she had. Deadpool himself would have long grown bored of wandering in a simple defensive dance. Maybe there was hope for her after all.

"This is boring," she announced, launching herself into the air. "I can't keep playing with you. I have work to do." She flipped, pushed her foot against the wall, and dove, point-first, towards Frost.

"What the hell-?" the blonde barely had a chance to react to the sudden change in Rogue's focus. Thankfully, he noted with a sense of relief and pride, Summers was still in top form. He managed to shoot off an optical blast that knocked Rogue into the fridge and rendered her unconscious, but not before her sword left a nasty gash in Frost's arm.

Wolverine strode over to Rogue, shaking his head as he surveyed her form sprawled over the tiles. He didn't know how long it would take for Deadpool's healing factor to kick in, but they needed to restrain her before that happened. He was certain that the emergency bungee cord was still under the sink where he had stored it - Logan, true to form, prided himself on being prepared for any emergency in any room.

"Give me a hand," he growled, and Summers helped lift Rogues body while Wolverine bound her wrists and ankles with the cord. She wasn't going to get out of that easily. Too bad he couldn't do the same for Frost, who hovered over them like a particularly vicious hawk.

"Are you sure she won't be able to get out of those?" she nagged, looking haughty despite her bleeding arm. "I really don't need another scar-"

He was going to give her one if she didn't shut up.

"-and really, the security around here could use some work, if some lunatic got in that easily. Scott, I'm so glad you were there-"

"Just keep an eye on Deadpool, Blondie," Wolverine cut in, hoping she would get the hint. She huffed, placed a hand on her hip, and pivoted around. Her flimsy night clothes fluttered around for a moment after she turned.," he said gruffly. "He's not coming back tonight."

"He's not here," she said, voice tight.

She had to be joking.

Wolverine stood up and bolted to the window, Summers no more than a foot behind him. Off in the darkness, he could see a small figure bolting over the fence. Two seconds, they hadn't watched him, and he was gone.

"Well, no point in standing around," he said gruffly, "he's not coming back tonight. Let's get upstairs. Hank's going to have a field day with you guys."

With that, he flung Rogue's still-lifeless body over his shoulder and made his way to the door.

Someone, and he was pretty sure he knew who, was going to have a hell of a lot of talking to do.

* * *

**Author's Note:** No real excuse for the months-long delay in the chapters beyond schoolwork- I've finally finished my undergrad, which allows me significantly more time to write. I've missed being a part of fandom, and I apologize to anyone (maybe all… half a person?) who may have been waiting with bated breath for this. Thankfully, I've started the next chapter, and I hope to have a short fic posted in the next few days.

Reviews and constructive criticism are much loved!


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